Family
by otahyoni
Summary: Post-series. Slight AU. After Angel's death at the hands of W&H's army, Faith receives a dream that sends her in search of Connor. Doyle begins his own search for the boy, who must become a champion in his father's place. Complete.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** This story takes place in the slightly-alternate universe created in my one-shot "Scratch." I recommend you read that first; otherwise Doyle's presence will be confusing.

**

* * *

Family**

**by Otahyoni**

"Yougotta do what you can to protect your family."

—Connor, "Origin"

**

* * *

Prologue**

The vision hit him like a cement truck. He dropped the pot of soup as his brain exploded with light and pain. The pot bounced as he hit the floor, limbs twitching, eyes squeezed shut, mouth contorted in pain.

This was the worst it had ever been. The worst. Partly because it was unexpected—he hadn't had a vision in four and a half years. But mostly because of what it showed him.

Angel. Cordy. Wes. A string of others he didn't know. Fighting. Dying. In flashes and bursts of emotion and pain, the last four years of the Angel Investigations team were laid out, ending in a rain-soaked alley where a pile of dust washed into the sewer as an army of demons rejoiced.

Woven through it all was the face of a boy.

When it was over, Doyle lay in a pool of soup on the floor of his kitchen. Through his grief and the residual emotions of the vision, he was aware of one thing:

He had to find Connor. He had to find Angel's son.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Angel's death almost killed her.

She didn't let it show. She never let anything show. But at night she lay in her bed and let herself drown in the empty ache that he left. During the day she did her part to train her new Slayers, throwing herself into the Drill Sergeant role with an ease that surprised her. She hadn't expected to like teaching. Hadn't expected to be respected and listened to. Hadn't expected leadership to fit her so well.

Sparring and teaching and patrolling helped take her mind off the ache, but it was always waiting for her when she stopped to catch her breath.

She hadn't been in love with him. She only hinted at a physical relationship because it was the fastest and most rewarding way to piss off Buffy. He had been more than a lover. Beyond a lover.

He had been her family.

She hated that word, hated everything it stood for—or hadn't, in her case—but it was the only one she had.

And now the only true family she had ever known was gone. Dust in an alley.

Faith lay in her bed, listening to the night sounds of the motel. The footsteps of someone walking down the hall. The squeak of a mattress as one of the girls in the other bed turned over in her sleep. The three a.m. traffic of Phoenix.

The night lights of the city beyond the window made the curtains glow with a fuzzy orange light, which made their room look like the inside of a jack-o-lantern. Faith lay bathed in orange light until the sound of breathing and traffic lulled her into sleep.

* * *

Katie and Elena attacked their omelets and stacks of pancakes with the remarkable enthusiasm teenage Slayers had for food. Even cheap, greasy, diner food. 

Faith sat across the table from them, watching them eat with amusement. Her own plate of scrambled eggs and bacon was virtually untouched. She'd made a show of pushing the eggs around and taking a bite or two earlier, but now she just leaned back into the booth, juice glass in hand, and watched her Slayers wolf down their food as though the waitress might snatch it away from them any second.

Her Slayers. They'd been together for almost six month, bouncing from city to city. They trained, they patrolled, they moved on. "The Renegades," Katie had dubbed them. "Slayers on the run." It was what they had in common, why Giles had assigned them to each other: they shared a strong desire to avoid the authorities if at all possible.

There was no way Faith was going back to prison. They'd never let her back out again.

Katie's situation was similar. Three days after coming into her Slayer powers, she had broken out of the juvenile detention center that had been her home for eight months. She was only seventeen, but the shoplifting habit she had developed at age twelve escalated into grand theft auto by age sixteen. She got caught.

Elena, though not being actively pursued by any law enforcement agency, would promptly be deported if they happened to discover she existed. She had lived on the streets for most of her fifteen years, somehow managing to sneak across the border from Tijuana at age ten.

In addition to their lack of good citizenship—or citizenship altogether—they had one other thing in common: none of them had any family. Katie had bounced from foster home to foster home since infancy, and Elena barely remembered a mother who had died in the gutter ten years earlier.

Elena stuffed a last bite of pancake in her mouth and looked up. "What will we do today, Faith?" she asked around her mouthful.

Faith took a sip of her orange juice and shrugged. "Same as usual, I guess."

Katie made a face and swirled a chunk of egg through her syrup. "When are _we_ going to get to kill stuff again? You've been hogging all the vamps, and I'm tired of watching you have all the fun."

Elena nodded vigorously, still chewing.

The corner of Faith's mouth twitched as she looked from one girl to the other. "Whatever. It's not my fault you keep getting knocked down."

Katie narrowed her eyes. "I think you've been tripping me."

Faith smiled. "Don't need to."

Katie tried to look stern and threatening, but burst out laughing instead. "That's probably true."

"It is," Elena said, smiling broadly. Then she noticed Faith's plate. "Faith, you've hardly eaten. Are you okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. This just wasn't what I wanted, you know?" She forced herself to take another sip of juice.

Elena didn't look convinced. "You've been…odd since Mr. Giles called a few weeks ago. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Katie added. "We haven't been dancing in ages. 'Course, I doubt there's a decent club in this city. Not for minors, anyway." She glared at Elena.

"What?" the younger girl protested. "I will not lie just so you can drink and dance!"

Katie rolled her eyes. "You know how much that ID cost me? God won't strike you dead for flashing a fake ID."

"Yes, I do know how much it cost," Elena retorted. It was an old argument. "And I don't care. I won't do it."

"How did you get to be such a straight edge? Afraid you'll get kicked out of your church club if you have a little fun?"

Elena twisted in her seat to face Katie full on. "It is not the dancing I object to. It is the lying."

Katie rolled her eyes. "Hasn't anyone ever explained the concept of a 'little white lie' to you?"

"Yes. You. Many times. I do not agree."

"Faith!" Katie whined. "Make her listen to reason."

Faith grinned. "Girl's allowed to have her principles."

"But she doesn't have to impose them on the rest of us!"

"Just as you are trying impose your own—or lack of—on me?" Elena asked, one eyebrow cocked.

Katie glowered, defeated. "I have principles," she muttered.

Elena stuck her tongue out at her.

"I'm bigger than you, you know," Katie threatened.

"I'm faster," Elena retorted. "Pfft! Like the _conejo_."

"What the hell's a _conejo?_" Katie demanded, frowning. "I thought we had a no Spanish rule. Don't we have a no Spanish rule?"

Faith sipped her juice, trying not to laugh.

Elena held her hands at the back of her head and flopped her fingers over like ears. She wriggled her nose.

Katie stared at her blankly.

"_Conejo_," Elena said, wriggling her nose harder.

Faith nearly spit her juice all over the table.

Katie glared at her. "Weren't we talking about Faith before Elena decided to do a rodent impression?"

Elena dropped her hands. "I'm a rabbit," she said indignantly.

"Right," Katie drawled. "'Cause rabbits are real scary. Great Slayer mascot. Strike fear into the hearts of demons everywhere." Elena opened her mouth to argue, but Katie cut her off by pointing at Faith and asking, "You want to talk about her or not?"

"We don't need to talk about me," Faith said.

"Yes, we do," Elena said, turning toward her, her argument with Katie set aside for a later time. "Something's off. I'm worried. _We're_ worried, aren't we?" She smacked Katie's arm.

"Right. That we are." Katie folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. "How do you _feel_, Faith?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Elena looked at the ceiling and sighed.

Faith tried to smile reassuringly. "Five by five." She pulled a wad of cash out of her jacket pocket, counted out some bills, and threw them on the table. "Let's get outta here," she said, putting an end to the discussion.

She slid out of the booth, Katie and Elena following.

* * *

Faith peeked around the corner of an old warehouse. About thirty yards away, Elena slowly walked down the alley, kicking at empty bottles, her hands shoved in the pockets of her baggy jeans. Katie and Faith had taken the younger girl shopping on several occasions, trying to get her to buy more exciting outfits—or at least clothes that fit. But years on the street had left Elena comfortable only in loose clothing. She wore baggy boys' jeans and t-shirts or sweatshirts one size too big, which made her tiny frame look even smaller. Walking down the alley in the dark, she looked like a child. Easy prey. 

Elena walked another ten yards before a figure separated itself from the darkness.

"Lost?" it asked.

Elena froze.

The figure—a woman—strolled up to the Slayer and ran a finger down her cheek. Faith bent her legs, preparing to sprint. But there was only one, and she stayed huddled against the building and watched.

Elena shrank back from the vampire.

"Poor little girl," it purred, taking a step forward.

Right into Elena's fist. The vampire stumbled backward, and before it could regain its balance, Elena's foot smashed into its face. The conflict escalated into an exchange of blows, a few brutal enough to send Elena staggering and to make Faith twitch in a mixture of anxiety and bloodlust. She wanted to fight, she wanted to _fight_. The urge, the desire pounded through her veins, and it was all she could do to hold still.

But this was Elena's fight, Elena's kill, and Faith wasn't needed.

Elena found an opening, lunged with her stake, and it was over.

Faith jogged down the alley, and she could see Katie doing the same from the opposite end. They reached a barely winded Elena at the same time, and Katie began to clap.

"Nice one, 'Lena. That was, like, eighteen seconds, tops." Katie, with her tall frame, angular face, and short, spiky hair, did nothing to dispel the image of Elena as a child.

Elena flipped her braid back over her shoulder and smiled. "Think you can beat it?"

They turned to Faith.

"My turn?" Katie asked. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Elena snorted but addressed Faith with, "Can we go again?"

Faith tucked her stake in the back of her jeans and nodded. "Let's hit the cemetery."

* * *

It took longer to find Katie a vamp, but they finally did, and the two younger Slayers spent the walk back to the motel arguing about their dusting times. 

"Yours was definitely nineteen seconds. Almost twenty. I counted very carefully," Elena said.

"No way," Katie refuted. "I was so quicker than you. Were you counting really fast? Show me how you were counting."

Elena counted.

"That's too fast! Faith, did you count? Please, tell me you counted."

Faith raised her hands. "Hey, leave me out of it." The adrenaline was wearing off, and she could feel the void opening inside her. She quickened their walking pace slightly, anxious for the solitude of her pillow.

"We'll recount tomorrow," Katie declared. Elena nodded in agreement. The walk was completed in silence.

Ten minutes saw teeth brushed, pajamas donned, and the lights out. Faith turned her back to the other bed and let the darkness take her.

_

* * *

She stood in an alley drenched with rain. _

_Ahead of her, far enough away that the rain made faces barely recognizable, a battle raged. An army against four. _

_As she watched, Gunn fell to his knees. His axe slipped from his hand and he clutched a wound in his stomach. He raised his head as a demon stepped in front of him, weapon raised. The demon swung. Gunn fell._

_Faith screamed, not for Gunn, but for what she knew would happen next. She would stand here and watch them die. Watch Angel die. _

"_Hey, Faith."_

_She jumped. Angel stood beside her. She stared at him, then looked back toward the battle, where he still fought. She looked again at the Angel standing next to her. She took two steps forward, wanting to touch him, prove that he was there, alive. But she stopped when she noticed he was completely dry. _

"_You're not really here," she said._

_He gave her an odd look. "Neither are you." He reached inside his coat and pulled something out of his pocket. "I want to show you something." _

_Faith stared at it. Wrapped in a blue blanket with tiny smiling elephants on it was a baby._

_Angel tilted his arms so she could see the baby's face._

"_He has his mother's eyes, but I think he has my chin. What do you think?" He grinned at her. "He's important. You'll have to take care of him."_

_He thrust the baby into her arms, and she was surprised how heavy he was, like holding an anvil. She stared at the baby in wonder._

"_Lost," Angel said sadly. "Lost as the rest of us. I tried so hard, but he just couldn't find his way."_

_The baby gurgled, then vamped out and launched itself at Faith's neck. She shouted and stumbled backward as the baby sank its fangs into her throat. _

"_Connor, no," Angel said sternly. "You know you can't do that."_

_She yanked the baby off and threw it across the alley, and as it tumbled through the air, it grew. It landed in a crouch, a full-grown boy._

"_I didn't do it," he said, straightening. "Not really." _

_Faith looked over at Angel, but he was gone. When she looked back at the boy, he had disappeared as well. Spinning, she noticed a door set into the building behind her. She pulled it open and stepped through it._

_She was in a toy store, standing in the stuffed animal section. Someone disappeared around the corner and she sprinted down the aisle. She turned the corner and skidded to a halt when she nearly ran into Katie and Elena playing darts. Covering the dart board was a picture of Angel. _

_Elena frowned at Faith. "You're all wet. Did you lose him?"_

_Katie clucked her tongue and threw a dart. It pierced Angel's heart._

"_Have you seen Connor?" Faith asked. _

"_He's hiding," Elena said. She pointed toward the corner of the store. "Do you have a map?"_

"_No," Faith said. "I don't have anything."_

"_You'll need a map." _

_Katie threw another dart into Angel's heart. Faith looked down at her hands. They were full of dust._

_Elena looked at Faith's hands. "He'll need that when you find him. Don't lose it, too."_

_Faith closed her hands around the dust. _

_Katie threw another dart._

* * *

Faith sat up in bed, her fists clenched around nothing. 

"Are you okay?" she heard Elena whisper.

She opened her eyes and forced her hands open. She stared down at her empty palms and whispered back, "Yeah. Just…need to call Buffy."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nah, just crazy Slayer mind games," Faith muttered as she slipped out of her bed. In the orange light suffusing the room, she could see the younger girl propped up on her elbows, watching her. Next to her, Katie lay on her stomach, snoring slightly, one arm hanging off the mattress.

Faith picked up their Official Slayer Cell Phone from the room's small table, and eased the door open. It clicked softly shut behind her, and she walked as quickly as she could down the hallway, through the lobby, and out of the motel. She moved around to the side of the building and crouched down on the sidewalk, the stucco wall warm against her back.

She dialed and waited.

"Hello?"

"Buffy."

"Faith? What's wrong?" A natural reaction on Buffy's part. The two Slayers hadn't spoken to each other since their blowout over Angel when he'd taken over Wolfram & Hart. Buffy had instantly been suspicious, prepared to believe the worst, and the rest of the Scoobies followed suit. Faith was the only one who defended him. Maybe she was the only one who could understand what he was trying to do—he'd done the same thing with her.

The fact that she'd been right was little comfort now.

"These dreams we're supposed to get," Faith said, getting straight to business, "the wacky, cryptic ones. What're they like?" She'd never had a Slayer dream, and even though she knew—she _knew_—what her nightmare had been, she wanted confirmation.

"Wacky and cryptic pretty much sums it up," Buffy said.

"But I mean, can you tell? Do they feel different?"

A pause. "Did you have one?"

"I think so."

"Tell me."

Faith hesitated. Something inside her balked—the dream was _hers_. Instead, she asked, "Did Angel have a son?"

"What? No!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Vampires can't have children; you know that. The last thing we need is a bunch of ankle-biting, baby vamps running around."

Faith forced that image out of head. "Does the name Connor mean anything to you?"

"No. Faith, what's going on?"

Faith put a casual edge on her voice, added a touch of relief. "Nothing, I guess. Just a weird dream."

A longer pause. "I miss him, too, Faith."

"Yeah. Sure. Look, B, I gotta go." She hung up, a familiar anger rising inside her. _I miss him, too. _Buffy just missed the idea of Angel. The idea of him out there, pining over her. The memory of him. That's all she'd really had for years now, an idea and a memory. And they tarnished easily. His death may have shined them back up again, but in Faith's book it was too little, too late. Besides, she was fairly certain that learning Spike was alive only to find out in the next sentence that he had died again had hit Buffy harder than Angel's death.

She pushed the old Buffy animosity aside as she pushed herself off the ground. The call had been mostly pointless. Buffy's reaction was just what Faith expected it to be—half take-charge, half dismissive—but the feeling in her gut had only intensified.

A small flicker of hope sprang to life deep inside her, casting its tiny light into the void.

Faith strode back into the motel, feeling more alive than she had in weeks.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

A particularly large jolt woke Doyle. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb and lifted his head away from the window. Blinking, he rubbed the side of his face. His skin was sticky where it had pressed against the glass. He straightened in his seat, his neck and back protesting his choice of sleeping position.

Still rubbing his temple, Doyle looked out the window. The landscape was exactly the same as it had been when he fell asleep—he checked his watch—three hours ago. He had the strange feeling that the bus was on a giant treadmill, rolling and bouncing but never gaining any ground.

He remembered this empty expanse of scrub brush from his last cross-country bus trip five years ago, and it wasn't any more exciting this time around. Everything was brown and dusty, and he missed the lush green of Atlanta, with its trees and flowers and overall excess of foliage. He missed his small, snug apartment and the polished wood of the pub's bar, and he wondered if he'd ever see them again, now that the Powers That Be had once again decided his life was theirs to do with as they pleased. After the vision, he'd stuck around long enough to wheedle out of his lease and convince Jack that despite the fact he was quitting with no notice whatsoever, he really did deserve to get that last paycheck. And now he was on his way back to L.A. in an eerie echo of his exodus half a decade ago. The only difference was that he had a real suitcase this time and a checking account instead of a wad of cash.

Looking again at his watch, Doyle decided they were probably in New Mexico. In four hours they'd stop in Phoenix, and he'd change buses for the last leg of this marathon trip to L.A. At which point he fully intended to get a hotel room and sleep for sixteen hours straight.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the monotonous scenery, and leaned his head back against the seat. He couldn't decide how he felt about returning to the City of Angels, a name that, in his opinion, no longer applied. For him, at least, L.A. before Angel had been a dark place. With Angel, there was a ray of hope. But now?

He supposed that was why he was going back—to bring another ray of hope to the city.

Of course, he had to find the kid first. And the PTB, per their usual _modus_ _operandi_, weren't being at all helpful. The vision had shown him little more than that Connor existed and that his life had sucked to an extent Doyle could hardly comprehend. With Angel, they'd at least shown him where the vampire lived. This time, he'd just have to hit all the old demon haunts, asking questions and trying not to get the snot beat out of him by something big and ugly. He hoped the Powers were having fun; he certainly wouldn't be.

Not quite believing himself, he silently willed another vision to hit, preferably one that included an address. But instead of mind-numbing pain, he felt something bounce off his lower leg. He opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," the woman sitting next to him said, blushing slightly. "I dropped my pen, and it rolled…"

"No problem," Doyle said, bending down to pick up the runaway pen from where it lay between his feet. He handed it back to her.

"Thank you," she said. She paused a moment, then asked, "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really," he replied, smiling. "Did I snore?"

She laughed. "No, no." She flipped the pen in her hand so that it wove through her fingers and looked at him with interest. "Where are you from?"

"Atlanta." He tried to keep the amusement out of his smile as her forehead furrowed in confusion.

"Oh."

"Before that, L.A. And a long while before that, Ireland."

She brightened. "I thought so." She looked down at the notebook in her lap, fiddled with her pen some more, and asked, "Where are you headed?" When he didn't answer right away, she looked up at him, eyes wide. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No," he interrupted, "it's all right. I was just trying to figure out how to explain it." She watched him quietly while he searched for the words. "A…a good friend of mine died a few weeks ago, and I'm going to L.A. to find his son. I need…there's something of his father's I have that I need to give him. A legacy of sorts, I guess."

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Wow. I—I'm sorry about your friend."

Doyle nodded and gave her a small smile.

"I'm Tina," she said.

"Alan," he returned after a fraction of a pause. He leaned his head back against the seat and looked at her. It was four hours to Albuquerque, and scrub brush couldn't talk. "Where are you headed, Tina?"

* * *

"Wait," Katie said, frowning, her fork forgotten in midair. "I thought L.A. was at the top of our No Go list." 

Faith watched syrup drip off the mini-stack of pancakes speared on Katie's fork. Everyone else in the diner was eating cheeseburgers, chili, and slices of cherry pie, but the three girls in the window booth were devouring pancakes and waffles. At least, Katie and Elena were devouring their pancakes. Faith's fruit-slathered waffle was only missing two squares. Her insides were humming too loudly to eat.

"It is," she said, "but I have to go. And since you're stuck with me, you have to go, too."

Katie shoved the dripping forkful of pancakes in her mouth and said around them, "Hey, I've never been, so I'm all for it. I just thought we were trying to keep a low profile, is all, and since the last time you were in L.A. you made with the assault and battery…"

Faith took long drink of the diner's sludge-like coffee to hide a twitch. She still wasn't sure why she'd lied to them. No, that wasn't true—she knew exactly why she'd lied to them. She wanted to be worthy of being their leader. She wanted to be accepted. A murderer would be neither of those things. So she'd spun a tale about how she was drunk one night at a club, and some guy had groped her without her express permission. She'd had a bad night slaying—hadn't been able to save someone—and had snapped. She hit him, then hit him again, and then kept hitting him. His buddies had tried to pull her off him, and she'd beaten the hell out of them, then out of the club's bouncers, and then out of half a dozen police officers. She'd woken the next morning with a killer headache and a hefty load of guilt. And when she saw in the paper that the groper was in a coma and several of her other victims were in traction, she'd turned herself in.

As a story, it was too neat, too easy, and completely unbelievable, but Katie had merely mumbled something about perverts and cops and accepted it. Elena had given her a long look but had never questioned her, and for the first time in years, Faith had enjoyed the company of people who weren't just waiting for her to go bad again.

"Does this have anything to do with the phone call you made to Buffy last night?" Elena asked.

Katie looked from Elena to Faith and back again and said, "Huh?"

"I had a dream," Faith said.

Katie's eyes widened. She dropped her fork and leaned forward, her chest nearly in her plate. "A Slayer dream? _Really?_ That's so wicked!"

Elena crossed herself and whispered something in Spanish.

"So?" Katie demanded. "What was it about? Something big coming to kill us all?" She looked excited at the prospect.

"Nah," Faith said, setting the coffee cup down. "Just gotta find someone." She told them about Angel. About his soul and how he helped Buffy then moved to L.A. to fight for the good guys.

"Were you in love with him?" Katie asked suspiciously.

Faith laughed. "That was Buffy's territory. Angel was just a good friend. He was there for me when no one else was." If there was one thing she'd mastered, it was the art of casual understatement.

"So we're going to find Angel?" Elena asked.

"Hang on," Katie said, waving her hands. "Buffy was in love with a _vampire_?"

Faith smirked. "Two of 'em. Pokes a bit of a hole in her goody-two-shoes act, don't it?"

Katie's face seemed stuck between an open-mouthed gape and a glower.

"And to answer your question," Faith said, nodding to Elena, "Angel's dead. We need to find his son."

She couldn't have shocked them more fully if she'd lunged across the table and sunk her teeth into their necks.

"Wait, wait, wait," Katie started, her face having slipped into a solid frown. "I remember learning that vampires couldn't have kids. I know we learned that. Right?"

Elena nodded, looking sad. "I don't think that's possible, Faith."

Faith sighed. "Everyone keeps sayin' that, but that's what the dream said: find Angel's kid."

"Maybe it was a metaphor," Katie said. "Maybe we're supposed to, I don't know, water his plant or something."

Faith glared at her. "His plant named Connor?"

"Okay, so we feed his dog."

"Angel didn't have a dog."

"How do you know?"

"Because I knew him."

"Did he have a son?"

"Obviously."

"So you've seen him?"

Faith paused. "No."

Elena jumped in. "When was the last time you saw Angel?"

"A year ago, give or take."

"Then his son must be a baby. Otherwise you'd have already known he existed, right?"

Faith thought about that for a second, then shook her head. "I don't think it's a baby. In the dream, he was grown up. Well, he was a baby, but then he grew up. Angel said he was lost."

Elena looked confused. "But if he's not a baby, then you'd know about him, wouldn't you?"

Faith shrugged.

"_Angel_ told you about the kid?" Katie's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Did you stop to think that maybe this wasn't a Slayer dream at all? That maybe you just miss your…friend, and your subconscious created this crazy son thing to give you something to cling to?"

Faith glared at her. She had wondered exactly that, if she wasn't grasping at ridiculous straws simply to still have something of Angel, but somehow she knew it was the real thing. "It didn't feel like a dream," she bit out. "It felt real. Like I was there. Like a vision or something."

Katie leaned back and crossed her arms. "I don't wanna baby-sit some blood-sucking demon spawn."

Faith placed both hands on the table and leaned forward as far as she could. She stared coldly at Katie. "That's the last time you ever insult Angel in my presence. Or his son."

She stood. "Come on. We're going to L.A."

* * *

Doyle shifted in his chair for the fifth time in two minutes. As much as they charged for bus tickets, one would think they could afford decent chairs in the stations. He should have flown. He'd have been in L.A. a day earlier, and he wouldn't need to see a chiropractor. 

He squinted out the window. What little he had seen of Phoenix looked nice, he supposed. A typical smog-hazy city, if hotter and drier than most. The dryness wouldn't be so bad, he thought. After five years in Atlanta, he still hadn't gotten used to the humidity. Maybe he never would.

The boarding call for his bus came over the P.A. system, and he stiffly levered himself out of his chair. He wheeled his small suitcase outside and snagged a place near the front of the line. He was digging through his jacket pocket for his ticket when the words "Angel's son" broke through his station-chatter filter.

He froze, his hand in pocket, and listened hard.

A girl a few people behind him said, "I mean, we don't even know if he exists—he certainly shouldn't. And I don't like that you haven't told Giles where we're going." She sounded young.

Another girl, this one with a husky smoker's voice, said, "Since when do you care about following the rules?"

Doyle peeked over his shoulder. Behind him was an elderly couple in matching Hawaiian shirts, but behind them stood three girls. He scanned them quickly, trying to memorize what they looked like in a couple of seconds.

The tall one had short, somewhat spiky hair that was neither red nor brown but lost somewhere in between. Her face was sharp, and her hands were shoved into the pockets of her jeans. She slouched in a way he thought was meant to look casually confident, but came across as though she were overly self-conscious of her height.

The brunette in the middle had her arms crossed and seemed to be winning a glaring contest with the tall one. He figured she was in charge. She looked older and slightly exotic. She was dressed similarly to the tall one: jeans, tight shirt, and a jacket, though hers was leather whereas the tall one's was denim.

Standing slightly behind the brunette was a small Hispanic girl who looked about thirteen. Her clothes were too big, and she fidgeted with the front of her t-shirt. Her face was soft and round, and she glanced anxiously between the other two girls. All three of them had duffle bags slung over their shoulders. The brunette's was one of the huge ones you could get at Army surplus stores, big enough to stash a body in.

Doyle turned around and pulled his ticket out of his pocket.

"Please," said the Hispanic girl, her accent confirming English was her second language. "We are nearly on the bus. We can call Mr. Giles from L.A."

The husky voice—the brunette—drawled, "Oh, Buffy's probably told him all about my dream by now. They probably had a good laugh about how pathetic and crazy I am."

Doyle tripped as he moved forward in line and nearly dropped his ticket. _Buffy_.

He closed his eyes and focused. He'd been practicing for five years to control his demon half so he could determine when he changed and how much. Once he had managed to sneeze and stay human. Once—he still needed some work. He had figured out how to access his enhanced sense of smell without turning into a blue pincushion, though, and he took advantage of it now.

New odors tickled his nostrils—the couple behind him owned a cat, and the woman in front of him was in the height of her monthly cycle—and he inhaled deeply.

He smelled _Power_. A lot of it. Enough to make him dizzy.

His eyes flew open, and he nearly lost control and went into full demon mode in the middle of a crowded bus station. Which would be doubly bad, as there were three Slayers standing six feet away.

_Three _Slayers.

He'd heard the rumors, but had never truly believed them. Who in the world was powerful enough to alter the entire structure of the Slayer's existence and populate the world with them? It was ludicrous. It was also, apparently, true. The proof was behind him in the guise of three bickering girls.

"Sir? Your ticket?"

Doyle blinked. A woman was frowning at him, her hand held out.

He smiled and handed her his ticket. "Yeah," he said. "More tired than I thought, I guess."

"Uh huh," she said, scanning his ticket. "Aren't we all? Enjoy your trip." She didn't sound like she meant it, but he didn't have time to worry about cranky Greyhound employees.

He tossed his suitcase into the luggage hold beneath the bus and dashed up the stairs, heading for the seats in the back. He slid up against the window and watched the Slayers board the bus. They sat too far forward for him to hear, but that didn't stop him from staring at the back of their heads until the bus was out of the city, and he realized how suspicious he was acting. This was a nonstop trip; they couldn't go anywhere until they got to L.A.

Where Connor was.

Doyle looked out the window, his mind racing. If these Slayers were looking for Connor—why? Did they want to recruit him? Should he introduce himself, explain his own purpose? He hoped that was it, but he couldn't forget what he had seen of Connor's life in his vision. How he had fought with Angel and against him. Tried to kill him. The anger, the pain, the fear. The unpredictability. The danger he represented.

Had they been sent to kill him, to eliminate a potential threat? The tall one said that they hadn't told Mr. Giles where they were going. Were they rogue Slayers? Did he even want to think about that?

Doyle closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the window glass, wishing it were cool. If they were after Connor, he'd have to find the boy first and protect him somehow. He wasn't sure how he'd do that, or even if the boy would need him to, but the Powers had given him a mission, and he wasn't going to fail.

Not again.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Faith slammed the demon's head into the bar again. His arms twitched on impact. He was slightly slimy, and she had to dig her fingernails into his skin to keep her grip.

Katie and Elena stood behind her, facing the rest of the demons in the bar. Faith didn't have to look at them to know that Katie had her arms crossed, an _I dare you _look on her face, and Elena held her arms loosely at her side, stake in hand. This was their fourteenth demon bar this week.

"Last chance," Faith said. "The next one will break either your skull or the bar. Which do you think it will be? I'm curious."

"I vote head," Katie said over her shoulder.

"Shall we find out?" Faith asked.

The demon's hands scrabbled against the edge of the bar, and Faith let him lift his head enough to speak. Blood ran down his face, and what had once been a long, pointed nose was now a crumpled mess.

"Look, I don't know anything about no vampire's kid!" the demon whined. "Angel and I were good buddies—"

Faith rolled her eyes and slammed his head down, though more gently this time.

"Okay, okay!" he shouted. "I don't know anything about the kid—"

Faith pushed his head down an inch.

The demon's voice rose an octave, and his speech came out in a frantic rush. "—but there was this guy here a few days ago, askin' around about the same kid!"

Faith stiffened. "What guy?"

"Some Irish guy. Short. I didn't talk to him, just overheard him askin' questions."

Faith frowned, then slammed the demon's head down one last time and let his unconscious body slide to the ground. She turned, wiping her hand off on her jeans, and signaled to Katie and Elena that they were leaving.

She marched outside without bothering to glance at any of the other demons in the bar. Once in the street, she stared up at the one star feebly shining through L.A.'s ever-present cloud of smog.

"So," Katie said. "Another guy."

"Who do you think he is?" Elena asked, shoving her stake in her back pocket.

Faith shrugged, still frowning up at the sky.

"Maybe we should ask him personally," Katie suggested. "Can't be that many Irish guys hanging out in demon bars, even in L.A."

"Faith?" Elena stepped to her side and squinted at her face.

Faith glanced at her, then at Katie, then tilted her head down the street and started walking.

She needed to think. Someone else was looking for Connor. The only reason she could come up with was to kill him, and she couldn't let that happen. She needed to find him, and she was running out of time.

"Faith, slow down!" Elena cried, dragging at her elbow.

Faith stopped. "This isn't working."

Katie frowned and looked around. "Are we lost?"

Faith shook her head, then nodded. "Yes. I mean, not physically. We're not going to find Connor this way."

Elena shuffled her feet and said, "Um, Faith, maybe we can't find him at all."

"What do you mean?"

Elena looked down before meeting Faith's gaze. "I mean, maybe he doesn't exist."

Faith stared at her, then took a step forward. "Listen to me." She glanced at Katie. "Both of you. We are not having this conversation again. He exists. Angel's son is out there, and I'm going to find him." She paused. Elena looked up at her with wide eyes. "_Comprende?_"

Elena nodded. Katie looked unhappy.

"Good." Faith started walking. After two steps, she heard Katie mutter, "Waste of time."

Faith whirled, retraced her steps, and punched Katie in the face.

The younger Slayer staggered backward, her hand covering her mouth.

"Faith!" Elena cried.

Faith thrust a hand toward her in a warning gesture, and the smaller girl backed up a few steps. Faith widened her stance and looked at Katie. "Fine. We will have this conversation again. You go first."

Katie pulled her hand away from her mouth and glanced at it. She showed Faith the blood smeared across her palm. She spit, wiped her mouth, and said, "I wondered if you'd ever hit me. Guess now I know."

"Guess you do," Faith replied. "But that's not the conversation we're going to have right now."

Katie gingerly touched her lip. "I just think we shouldn't waste our lives chasing after your personal Holy Grail or vision quest or whatever this is. There are people who need our help, and we're demon bar-hopping."

"Connor might need our help."

"But you don't know that," Katie snapped, leaning slightly forward. "You're obsessed with finding him, and you haven't even stopped to think things through."

"Not much of a thinker," Faith said. "I prefer the 'hit first, ask questions maybe' philosophy. But, all right, let's think about it. What's your main reason I'm on a wild goose chase?"

Katie eyed her suspiciously and said, "Vampires can't have children, so Connor can't exist."

"Right, good. A solid piece of evidence." Faith crossed her arms. "And I say, vampires don't have souls and there can only be one Slayer in the world. But I've known two ensouled vamps, and there are three Slayers right here in this street. Impossible crap happens all the time."

Katie opened her mouth, but Faith cut her off. "Also, someone else is looking for Connor. Which means I didn't make him up."

Katie glared at her and glanced at Elena.

"She's right," Elena said, sounding surprised. "One person looking for something might just be crazy."

"Thanks," Faith growled.

"But two strangers looking for the same thing…it must exist in some form."

Katie stared at Faith for a few more seconds, then shrugged and smiled lazily. "All right, then. What's our new battle plan?"

Faith relaxed slightly, cocking a hip. "Like you said, I haven't thought this through. So we need ourselves a thinker." She paused. "We need a Watcher."

* * *

"I'm sorry, where are you again?" Giles asked. 

"Seattle," Faith said. "Miserable weather, but the vamps love it. Hardly any sun. We might stick around for a while."

Giles said, "Hmm."

"So?" Faith prodded. "Is it possible?"

Giles sighed. "What you're talking about would take an extremely powerful sorcerer. Magic of this magnitude is extremely rare."

"Yeah, but it's happened. I remember Dawn being a whiny punk when I first came to Sunnydale, and she didn't even exist then. So it's been done."

"It's not the magic I find…improbable," Giles said. "It's the boy."

Faith closed her eyes. She was getting tired of hearing this. "We've both seen our share of 'improbable' things, Giles."

"Yes…I just don't…Faith, I don't think you reali—"

She hung up and frowned at the phone. "If I were Buffy, you'd believe me," she muttered at the glowing screen. She looked up at Elena and Katie, both sitting cross-legged on the beds of their motel room. Elena looked at her sympathetically. Katie blew a bubble and popped it. The snap echoed in the small room.

"So, what next?" the tall Slayer asked. "I say we find the Irish dude."

"How?" Faith asked.

Katie stopped chewing her gum for a moment, then shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe you'll have a dream about it."

"Do you know any more Watchers?" Elena asked before Faith could knock the gum out of Katie's mouth.

Faith shook her head. "They're all dead. The First blew them—" She stopped and stared at Elena.

"What?" Katie asked.

Faith scrambled out of her chair and dove for the nightstand between the two beds. She yanked open the door, shoved the Gideon Bible aside, and pulled out the L.A. phone book that filled the entire drawer. She sat on the bed and flipped to the back of the book.

"What are you on about?" Katie asked, scooting closer. Elena shifted as well, kneeling on the bed at Faith's side. She leaned over and pulled the Bible from the open drawer and sat back, running her hand along the cover.

"Not all of them got blown up," Faith said. "One of them was here in L.A., working for Angel." She turned a few more pages, then slowed, trying to remember how to spell his name.

"So we can just call him up?"

Faith shook her head slightly, running her finger down a column. "He's dead, too." She smothered the emotions that leapt up inside her. _Wind, Windbells, Windebank._ Faith swore. He wasn't here. She squinted at the book, then flipped a few pages farther back. Maybe…_Wynarski, Wyncoop, Wyndham. _There.

_Wyndham-Pryce, Wesley._

She scanned the address and tore the page out. She hadn't been too aware of the outside world the last time she'd been to Wes's apartment and only had a vague idea of the general area of his neighborhood. "Come on," she said, standing. "One more errand tonight."

"What kind of errand?" Katie asked, looking suspiciously hopeful.

"Right up your alley," Faith replied, pulling on her jacket. "Breaking and entering."

Elena's head snapped up from her lap, where the Bible still lay closed. "No," she said firmly. "I'm not going."

Faith looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Katie and I will be back in a while."

Katie shoved her feet into her trainers. "Ah, come on, 'Lena. He's dead, so it's not like we're really doing anything wrong."

Elena merely shook her head and looked at her lap.

"She's fine," Faith said. "Let's go."

Outside the motel, Katie said, "One thing I don't understand. If he's dead, he can't actually tell us anything. Why the visit?"

"You've never met a Watcher," Faith said. "They're anal, research types. Write everything down. And Wesley was more anal than most." She frowned. "At least, he used to be. Let's hope some things never change. And that his stuff is still there."

"How long has he been dead?" Katie asked, sounding thoughtful.

Faith glanced over her shoulder at the other girl before answering. "About a month."

Katie was quiet for a second. "We might get lucky," she said. "We're just coming up on rent time. Depending on what kind of place he lives in, missed rent might be the first time they notice he's gone."

Faith grunted.

They took a cab to Wesley's block, which had a surprising amount of traffic for a residential zone at four o' clock in the morning, even for L.A. Faith and Katie casually entered his apartment building and managed to find a stairwell without looking lost. Faith didn't like elevators; nowhere to run.

On the second-floor landing, Faith pulled the phone book page from her pocket and looked at Wesley's apartment number again. 762. They climbed the rest of the flights in silence, and with a quick glance over her shoulder at Katie, Faith cracked the stairwell door.

The hall was empty, and Faith slipped through the door, Katie following. They walked down the corridor, and Faith was impressed at how quietly Katie could walk in her boots. Faith flinched at each creak and thud that came from her footfalls. She'd never bothered to learn stealth. It wasn't her style.

Apartment 762 was halfway down the hall, and Faith slowly wrapped her hand around the handle, wondering if they dared break down the door. A small application of muscle broke the doorknob's latch, but they still had to get through the deadbolt. Faith looked back at Katie and tilted her head toward the door. She lifted one knee to mimic the beginning of a kick and raised her eyebrows.

Katie shook her head and gestured for Faith to move. Faith stepped to the side and slightly back and watched as Katie pulled a pocketknife from inside her jacket. She chose what looked like a tiny screwdriver and jammed it into the lock. A few seconds of wiggling later, the lock clicked and Katie pushed the door open. Faith stared into the dark apartment, stunned at their good luck.

It was just as she remembered it.

They moved inside and shut the door, and Faith found a light switch.

"Jackpot?" Katie asked in a low voice.

Faith nodded. "See if you can find something to carry a lot of paper in. We'll just take everything and sort through it later." Katie disappeared into the bedroom as Faith began to rifle through Wesley's desk, stacking everything that looked like notes in a pile. Katie appeared with a small suitcase and started emptying a small file cabinet. They worked quickly, the only sound the rustling of paper and the sliding of drawers.

As she shoved papers into the suitcase, Faith found herself both relieved and saddened by Wesley's preserved apartment. It meant that everyone who would have missed him had died with him. It meant that his body had never been identified, if it had even been found. She figured that was how everyone in this fight would end up sooner or later, how she would most likely end up—just another Jane Doe or dinner for something ugly.

When they'd collected every scrap of paper in the place, Katie asked, "What about the books? Should we take some of them?"

Faith looked at the shelves covering every wall of Wesley's apartment, at the books stacked on every flat surface. "No," she said. "We can't afford to lug that much with us every time we travel. I'll call Giles and suggest he send someone for them before the landlord realizes Wes ain't coming back." She slammed the suitcase shut. A few page corners stuck out, giving the old case an even more haggard look. She stood, hefting it in one hand. "Let's go."

* * *

Faith carefully closed the bathroom door, trying to keep the click of the latch as quiet as possible. The last thing she wanted right now was awake and curious Junior Slayers. She flipped the light switch and turned, looking at the suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor. 

Dropping to her knees, she eased the suitcase to the floor. She gently undid the clasps, trying to muffle the noise, silently cursing Wesley for not having a suitcase that zipped like normal people. Papers spilled onto the tile floor as she opened the case, and she felt a twinge of regret.

Faith sat back on her heels, frowning. Angel's death had turned her into an emotional sap. Maybe a little crazy, too. Here she was, sitting on a motel bathroom floor in the middle of the night, about to—of all things—read a Watcher's academic notes, and on top of it all she was feeling guilty about badmouthing Wesley's stupid suitcase. Wes was dead, and he certainly didn't care now if she cried for him or cursed him. Neither would do him a bit of good.

She called herself a few names under her breath, then cussed out the suitcase for good measure. Shaking her head, she settled against the bathtub and picked one of the sheets of paper off the floor. She began to read.

_

* * *

Angel thrust the baby into her arms, and she was surprised how heavy he was, like holding an anvil. _

_The baby gurgled, then vamped out and launched itself at her neck. She shouted and stumbled backward as the baby sank its fangs into her throat. She yanked the baby off and threw it across the alley, and as it tumbled through the air, it grew. It landed in a crouch, a full-grown boy._

_Faith looked over at Angel, but he was gone. When she looked back at the boy, he had disappeared as well. Spinning, she noticed a door set into the building behind her. She pulled it open and stepped through it._

_She was in the hallway of an office building, the walls, carpet, and art neutrally colored and bland. Someone disappeared around the corner, and she sprinted after him. She turned the corner and skidded to a halt when she nearly ran into Katie and Elena playing darts. Covering the dart board was a picture of Angel holding a baby. _

"_Have you seen Connor?" Faith asked. _

"_He's hiding," Elena said. "Do you have a map?"_

"_I have this," Faith said, lifting a suitcase._

_Elena frowned at it. "There's no map in there. Maps don't belong in suitcases. You'll have to look somewhere else." _

_Katie threw a dart, its point piercing Angel's heart and the baby's skull at the same time. Katie clapped her hands once in victory and hissed, "Yes! Two birds with one stone."_

_Faith looked down at the suitcase. Dust leaked from its hinges. She heard a ringing noise, and looked up to see Elena pull a cell phone from her pocket and answer it._

"_Yes? No, I'm afraid he's unavailable at the moment. Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment?" A pause. " I'm sorry, but you're not his only case."_

_Katie threw another dart._

* * *

Something touched her shoulder, and Faith lashed out, her fist connecting with something solid. She heard a strange, two-toned yell, and someone shouted her name. She opened her eyes and blinked, trying to focus. 

Elena knelt at her side, and Katie was sprawled in the tub, her legs hanging over the edge, her hand rubbing her jaw.

"That's the second time you've hit me in twenty-four hours," Katie said, grinning with one side of her mouth. "Must have been a whopper of a dream."

Faith pushed herself off the floor and into a sitting position, looking at the papers strewn around her. "Sorry," she said. "Reflex."

"No kidding," Katie said, scrambling to her feet. "And dude, why is the tub full of Watcher notes?"

Faith glanced over her shoulder. "Those are the ones I'm done with."

Katie whistled. "You read a lot."

"They're more boring than they look."

"Any luck?" Elena asked.

Faith shook her head. She started to her feet, but paused halfway, frowning as her "whopper of a dream" came back to her. She looked again at the notes scattered across the floor and said, "I don't think we'll find anything here."

"Really?" Katie asked. "Because I already found some freaky drawing of a six-legged demon." She turned the page in her hand to show Elena. "Says the best way to kill it is setting it on fire. That kind of knowledge might come in handy sometime."

Elena cocked her head and studied the drawing. "It reminds me of you," she said, grinning. Katie flicked the page at her face, but she ducked and turned to Faith. "The notes will not help?"

Faith shook her head, standing completely. "These won't. But I think I know where we need to go."

"You had the dream again, didn't you?" Elena asked quietly

Faith nodded. Her muscles hummed. They'd find something this time, she was sure of it.

"Goodie," Katie said, dropping the drawing. It floated down into the tub. "Another field trip."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Faith pulled the glass double doors open and strode into the lobby with all the arrogance she could muster, Katie and Elena flanking her like bodyguards. The receptionist watched them come toward her, one waxed eyebrow arched in disdain. Faith smiled thinly, knowing they couldn't look more out of place in an establishment like Wolfram & Hart if they sported blue skin and horns. Actually, they'd probably fit right in if they did.

Faith reached the receptionist's desk and leaned on it, giving the woman her best stone-cold killer look. The receptionist, to her credit, merely popped her gum and said, "I'm sorry, I don't think—" Her computer beeped, and she glanced at the screen. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed. Turning back to Faith, she said, "Can I help you?"

They must have a Slayer detector. Handy. "Yeah, I want Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's notes. Whatever he left," Faith said.

The receptionist blinked twice, her face falling into shock before she resumed her smile. "Just one moment, please." She picked up her phone, pushed two buttons, and said, "Yes sir, there's a young woman here about Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's papers. Mm-hmm. Of course, sir." She replaced the receiver, smiled some more. "Mr. Norberry will be right out to assist you."

"Thanks." Faith straightened and took a step backward, slipping the business card she'd palmed into her back pocket. Katie tilted her head back, examining the high, high ceiling. She whistled quietly in awe. Elena crossed herself. Faith agreed with both of them.

Mr. Norberry was indeed right out, and he was just what Faith figured the head of Wolfram & Hart's library section would look like: exactly like Wes when he was still a Watcher. Tall, gangly, slick hair, glasses. He walked toward her, grinning, one hand stretched out before him in order to shake hers as soon as possible.

"Hello and very nice to meet you, Miss…" He even sounded like Wes; same prissy accent.

"Faith." She applied a little more pressure to the handshake than was strictly necessary, but it was fun to watch his eyes pop wide.

"Ah," he said, politely extracting his hand from her grip and giving it a slight shake. "The Vampire Slayer. _Very _nice to meet you." His eyes took in Katie and Elena. "And these young ladies are?"

"My associates," Faith drawled.

He gave her a little nod. "Of course. If you would please follow me?"

Faith tossed a glance over her shoulders at the younger Slayers, letting them know she was in charge. She'd dealt with Wolfram & Hart people before; she just hoped she was still up to it.

Norberry talked a lot. As they waited for the elevator, he smiled at each of them in turn and said, "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's father wished for Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's notes to go to the new Watcher's Council, so we've been waiting for you. Not you, specifically, of course. We had no idea who they'd send. Though I am rather surprised they sent Slayers." The elevator arrived, and Norberry ushered them inside. The doors closed silently, and Norberry continued talking. "We would have mailed them, of course, but we had a bit of, ah, trouble finding the new headquarters."

He looked at Faith hopefully, but she merely stared at him. Of course they couldn't find the Watcher headquarters; there wasn't one, unless you counted Giles' house in England, and Willow had applied one of her super masking spells to that.

"I was going to be a Watcher," Norberry said, lifting his eyes to gaze wistfully over the top of her head. "Lucky, I guess, that I accepted this offer instead. Wolfram & Hart really does have an amazing library. I imagine the Watcher's Council's collection was destroyed in the explosion. Have you managed to rebuild at all?"

There was another long silence. When he realized Faith wasn't going to tell him anything useful, or indeed speak at all, something flashed in Norberry's eyes. He covered quickly by awkwardly ducking his head, swallowing, and saying, "Yes, well…"

Faith didn't think she could be more on edge, but she felt muscles she didn't even know she had tighten in her back. She managed to keep her face mostly blank, with just a touch of sneer. Norberry cleared his throat and watched the numbers at the top of the door click their way to twenty-seven and then stop.

The elevator door slid open, and Norberry led them down another hall. Faith stumbled on her first step, glad Norberry's back was to her, as she was sure her shock registered on her face.

They were walking down the hall from her dream. Wolfram & Hart had redecorated since she'd been here last, but she supposed when one had to completely rebuild a building, it was no big effort to change the color palate. As they passed an open door, she heard a female voice say, "Yes? No, I'm afraid he's unavailable at the moment. Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment?" As they continued past the door, the voice followed them. "I'm sorry, but you're not his only case."

She shouldn't have been so surprised. The dreams were visions, after all. The first one had shown her where Angel died, had shown her his son. Was it so crazy for it to show her the halls of Wolfram & Hart? They just seemed like such mundane details, the color of the walls, that painting, the secretary's words. At least she knew she was in the right place.

Norberry stopped in front of a set of wooden, double doors. He pulled a card from his breast pocket and slid it into a slot above the door handle, like a hotel room key. The lock beeped, and he opened the door, gesturing for the Slayers to precede him into the room.

It was a library, of course, dark and close and intimidating. Faith's eyes scanned the rows of shelves, the large wooden desks, and she thought how at home Wesley must have been here.

Norberry walked to one of the desks and pushed a button on the discreet intercom built into its corner. "Could you bring the Wyndham-Pryce files up, please? Thank you." He straightened. "It'll just be a few moments. Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? A pastry, perhaps?"

"No, thanks," she said stiffly. She stared at him, her arms crossed, until he looked away.

"You, miss?" Norberry asked, addressing Elena.

"_No hablo inglés_," Elena said flatly.

Norberry blinked and turned to Katie.

"What she said," Katie said, a lazy grin crawling across her face.

"Erm, yes," Norberry said. He cleared his throat.

Faith heard a door whoosh open somewhere in the depths of the library, and Norberry visibly relaxed. "Ah, here they are."

Three guys pushing dollies filed into the room. On each dolly sat two large boxes, sealed with packing tape. The way the men let them fall to floor upon stopping in a neat row testified to how heavy the boxes were. Faith felt her shoulders droop at the prospect at the vast amount of reading that lay in her future. There was a reason she'd dropped out of school; too much reading.

Norberry produced a form seemingly from the air and held it toward Faith along with a pen. "Just a release form," he said in explanation, thrusting the paper and pen at her again.

Faith took them warily and began to read. The page was completely full of small print and big words, but she was fairly certain it was indeed just a release form, stating that Wolfram & Hart was not responsible for any damage to the item or items in question or for any further damage she may cause to them or with them.

She bent over a desk and signed the form, using only her first name and purposely altering her handwriting. Just in case.

"Would you like us to help you out?" Norberry asked, his gesture toward the men with the dollies stating that he really meant they would help the Slayers out.

"Nah," Faith said, waving Katie and Elena forward. "We can get it." They each took two boxes, hefting them easily. This was especially impressive in Elena's case, as Faith was sure the two boxes she carried weighed more than she did.

"We'll see ourselves out, all right?" Faith said over her load, not waiting for an answer before moving through the doors.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Norberry called after them. His voice was a vast pool of eagerness hiding beneath politeness, but his words made the back of Faith's neck tingle, and she hoped they wouldn't have to stay in L.A. for long.

* * *

Once they were safely outside, Faith flagged down a cab. The managed to shove four of the boxes in the cab's trunk, and sat with the other two on their laps in the back seat as the cab took them back to their motel. 

"As much as you talked that place up, how big, bad, and evil it was,"—Katie waved her hands mockingly on he word "evil"—"the only scary thing I saw was some guy's toupee. That librarian Watcher dude certainly seemed harmless enough."

"He wasn't a Watcher," Faith muttered. "I've known Watchers, and he wasn't a Watcher."

"Came off awful bookish to me."

"He wasn't bookish."

"Then what was he?" Elena said.

Faith looked at her, then at Katie. "A very good actor."

Katie frowned. "Why would someone pretend to be a dork just to give us a bunch of notes?"

"That's what worries me," Faith said.

Elena shuddered, her eyes unfocusing slightly. "It is an evil place. I could feel it."

Katie snorted. "It's just a law firm. I've known lots of lawyers, believe me. Jerks, the lot of them, and probably evil, but nothing to get all jumpy about, and certainly nothing worth staking." She paused, looking thoughtful. "Well, maybe some of them."

"You haven't met Wolfram & Hart lawyers," Faith said. "They're not just lawyers, they're…" She struggled for the right words. "They work for the bad guys. _The _bad guys."

Katie leaned against the car door, eyes narrowed. "How come you know so much about this Wolfram & Hart place?"

Faith looked out the window, the echo of the thrill of slamming a snotty lawyer's face against a table multiple times quivering in her mind. "Angel fought them," she said, watching the storefronts pass by.

"And then he joined them," Katie added.

Faith's head snapped around. "To fight from the inside," she bit out. "As I've clearly explained before."

Katie lifted her hands in surrender. "Whatever. Just tryin' to get my facts straight."

Faith turned back to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass and wondering if there really were such things as facts anymore.

* * *

It took seven hours. Seven hours and three boxes of reading and scanning and digging through boxes of paper, until their backs ached and their eyes were bleary, but they found it. 

"Connor," Faith said quietly, lifting a single sheet of paper, half full of Wesley's now intimately familiar handwriting. The rest of the pages on her lap slid to the floor.

"_Gracias a Dios_," Elena sighed, throwing her stack of notes away from her in an uncharacteristic display of frustration.

Katie grinned at her, then turned to Faith with an expectant, "Well?"

Faith read Wesley's notes aloud, her voice shaking slightly in excitement.

"'Reilly, Laurence and Colleen. Son hit by van going fifty or sixty miles an hour. Boy was crushed between van and garage. Boy _virtually__unscathed_.'" Faith looked up. "Wes underlined the last two words like eight times."

"Sounds like something the son of a vampire would do," Katie said somewhat grudgingly, "popping back up after getting mowed down by a van. Was this during the day?"

Faith ignored her and continued reading. "Son's name: Connor. Age: 18. Previous demonstrations of superhuman ability: None.'" Faith looked up again, lowering the paper to her lap and smiling. "And there's an address."

* * *

Doyle needed a drink. Convenient, then, that he held a bottle of brandy in his right hand. 

He'd visited every demon bar he could remember and a few that he didn't, and all he got for his trouble was the repeated phrase, "You're crazy, man." A few demons with an overdeveloped sense of humor simply laughed at him, and on three occasions he found himself sprinting down the street to escape a fight he was guaranteed to lose.

Other than the complete lack of information, though, he had to admit it had gone much better than he'd expected. He hadn't run into anyone he actually knew—most of whom he still owed money—had only suffered a black eye and a split lip from a cranky Kilgoth demon that had slammed its gigantic mug into his face rather than answer a question, and, most importantly, he hadn't run into any of the Slayers from the bus. He'd be tempted to thank the Powers, but they didn't actually care. More likely, he was finally getting back some of that "luck of the Irish" that had abandoned him ten years ago. The more bars he went to, the more jumpy the patrons were, and it didn't take a genius to figure out the Slayers had been there before him, smashing heads and asking the same questions. It could only be luck that had kept them from crossing paths, and for that he was extremely grateful. For all its faults, Doyle was rather fond of his head. He also took comfort in the fact that, despite their more persuasive methods, the Slayers hadn't learned anything either. The demons thought they were just as crazy as he was.

And if they were just as crazy as he was, then they probably weren't any closer to finding Connor than he was. It wasn't a large victory— technically not even a victory—but he'd take it.

He worked the bottle of brandy open and took a swig, never taking his eyes off the name carved into the stone in front of him: CORDELIA CHASE. He poured the rest of the bottle onto the grass at his feet and dropped it.

"Hey, Princess," he said quietly. He looked down at himself and smiled sadly. "I'm wearing that shirt you hate." He tugged on the collar. "I guess you hated them all. I got rid of some of them—mostly because I turned them funny colors in the laundry, but still. They're gone." He shifted his weight, feeling the spring of the grass and the cushion of the earth beneath his feet. He wanted to touch the headstone, touch her. Instead he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and took a step back.

"I just wanted to stop by since I was in town," he continued. "You're the only one with any sort of grave." He cleared his throat, wishing he hadn't dumped all the brandy onto the ground. "I'm trying to find Connor. So far…well, at least I knew you wouldn't tell me I was crazy, trying to find the miracle son of a vampire. You knew him, I know that. The vision was pretty, um, detailed." He crouched and pulled up a handful of grass, then threw it into the breeze. The blades fluttered back to him and stuck to the legs of his trousers. "I know that wasn't you who came back, wasn't you who did all those horrible things. I'm just surprised you fell for that whole 'higher being' schlock in the first place." He smiled again. "You, Cordy? Come on. I don't care how much the visions changed you, you were never cut out for sainthood."

He stood and put his hands back in his pockets. He kicked one of his legs, trying to dislodge the grass. "I know you loved him, too. Only right, I guess."

He stood for several seconds, letting the breeze play with his hair as he finally accepted that she was gone, that Angel was gone. It had been comforting to him, going about his ineffective life in Atlanta, to know that they were here, fighting, doing what they could to make things better. Now it was up to him, which meant the world was probably in trouble.

He bent and picked up the empty bottle. "Well, I should go. Got a kid to find and—"   
He squeezed his eyes shut and bared his teeth and pain flared in his skull. He dropped to his hands and knees as images burst against his eyelids.

Connor. Laughing, playing, being hugged and held and loved by a family. Connor growing up. Connor going to school. Connor discovering what he was. Connor at Stanford. Connor in San Francisco.

A street, a building, a door, a number.

Doyle panted as the pain and images receded. He collapsed and rolled onto his back, squinting up at the sky, his head resting on the slight mound of Cordy's grave. He forced his hands open, releasing fistfuls of grass and dirt.

"What was that?" he asked. This life clashed completely with his previous vision, the one with a heavy dose of hell, both in this dimension and in another. But this? This normality? How did the kid have two lives?

A smell lingered in his nostrils—part of the full-package visions that involved all five senses—and he realized it was magic. Strong magic.

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Doyle laughed. Just like Angel's self-torturing ways to give up his son in order to make him happy.

"That would have been nice to know a couple weeks ago," he said to the sky. "I really didn't need the Demon's Reunion Tour of L.A."

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing at the grass stains on his knees. He had dirt under his fingernails and his hands smelled vaguely of brandy. He sighed and picked the bottle back up, then paused as his eyes came to rest on the words CORDELIA CHASE once more. He glanced at the sky and then back down. He smiled.

"Thanks, Cordy," he said.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

A very nice-looking man opened the door. Faith straightened her shoulders.

"Mr. Reilly?" she asked.

His eyes swept the three girls standing on his porch before answering. "Yes?"

"We're looking for Connor," Faith said, deciding a brisk, professional tone would be best. "Is he in?"

Reilly frowned slightly. "No, I'm afraid not. He's in San Francisco for the summer."

"Could you give us his address? We're from Wolfram & Hart; we just want to check in on how he's adjusting." She smiled and handed him the business card she'd stolen from the law firm's receptionist. The card merely stated the receptionist's name, Stephanie McCormick, and not her title. Faith wished she'd grabbed a few more.

Reilly looked from the card to Faith, his eyes scanning her attire before glancing suspiciously at Katie and Elena. Faith leaned forward slightly.

"I sometimes take local high school kids with me on my weekend rounds," she whispered. "They feel more comfortable if I don't wear my suit." She had her jacket buttoned to her collar bone to make her outfit more modest. Underneath it she was drenched with sweat thanks to the blistering June sun.

Reilly relaxed and smiled slightly. "Of course. It's very kind of you to follow up with us."

"Satisfaction guaranteed," Faith said in her best Perky Buffy imitation.

"Just a moment." Reilly disappeared into the house and returned a few seconds later with a ballpoint pen. He flipped the business card over against the doorjamb and began writing. "Here's his address and phone number there. He's really doing quite well. He has an internship with Martin & Boggs, a very prestigious architecture firm." He grinned at her, oozing paternal pride.

Faith nodded and accepted the card. "Thank you, sir. I'll make sure this gets to a member of our San Francisco team first thing Monday morning." She took a step back. "Have a good day."

Reilly waved and shut the door.

As they walked toward their waiting cab, Faith was extremely aware of the card held between her fingertips.

* * *

"I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that he's our age," Katie said. 

"Me, too," Faith said, watching California roll by out of her window. She was tired of buses, tired of boarding one every few weeks to move on to a different city. Even empty they felt claustrophobic, and the bus from L.A. to San Francisco was a popular route; this bus was anything but empty. She never thought she'd consciously wish she could just settle down and really live somewhere, but if it meant she never had to ride a bus again, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

"I mean, Angel wasn't exactly a chatterbox," she continued, "especially about himself, but how do you manage to keep from _everyone_ that you have a kid? Even Buffy doesn't know about him, and you'd think he'd have at least told her, what with their 'forever love' and all."

Elena sat next to a large, snoring man in the row in front of Faith and Katie. She twisted around and knelt facingbackwards in her seat, looking at them over the headrest. "Maybe he was protecting him. Maybe Angel had to give his son away long ago, and could not tell because something horrible would happen?"

"Like what?" Katie asked.

Elena shrugged. "Or it is the magic, like Faith thinks."

"Or this is just some kid who happens to be named Connor and who, through some freak incident, survived getting hit by a van," Katie said.

"Yes," Faith said, "we all know what you think."

Katie huffed and leaned slightly toward the aisle so she could look out the bus's windshield; it kept her from getting motion sickness. After a few seconds of silence, Elena turned around and sat properly in her seat, the man next to her continuing to snore. Faith returned her gaze to the landscape outside her window and tried not to think of Robin Wood.

That was another reason she was tired of buses. Unwelcome memories.

* * *

It was a slightly ghetto apartment building, the kind you could rent by the week or month. The Slayers climbed the fire escape-like stairs to the third level and made their way to number 316. The blinds were shut against the slanting rays of the setting sun, but Faith could hear the faint thumping of music punctuated by what sounded like small explosions. 

She knocked, and they waited.

"Maybe he's not home," Elena said, twisting the bottom of her t-shirt.

"No," Faith said. "Video game. Can't hear us." She slammed her fist against the door three times, making it rattle in its frame.

"Whole _building_ heard that," Katie muttered.

The noise from inside stopped abruptly, and then they heard the chain being pulled back. A young man pulled the door open a few inches, his body language cautious but confident.

Faith stared at him. Connor stared back.

She'd found him.

"Faith!" he said.

Her eyes widened, and her own questions stuck in her throat.

"Wait," Katie said, "he _knows _you?" She turned to Connor. "You're actually him?"

Connor opened the door a little wider, letting his body fill the opening. He stared at Faith, the expression on his face a mixture of apprehension and enthusiasm. "You don't remember me, do you?" he asked. "No, of course not. You weren't there. That Window thing wouldn't have worked on you."

Katie said, "Huh?"

Faith managed to choke out, "Connor."

"Wow," he continued, not seeming to hear either of them. "I never thought I'd see you again, that's for sure. Didn't you go to Sunnydale? Were you there when, you know…" He mimed an explosion with his hands.

"You're Connor," Faith said again, her voice stronger. She had a strange urge to touch him.

He frowned slightly. "Uh, yeah. Hey, how _do _you know about me? You're not supposed to."

"She had a dream," Elena said. "A vision that led us to you."

Connor turned his head, taking in the other Slayers for the first time. "A vision?" he asked. Faith expected him to be confused or at least wary. Instead, he sagged against the door frame. "A vision," he said flatly.

"Could we come inside?" Elena asked, her voice soft.

Connor straightened. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." He stepped back, holding the door open for them.

The inside of the apartment was about what Faith would expect in a temporary summer residence for a college guy. The furniture was worn and mismatched, either hand-me-downs from relatives or picked up at the local thrift store. A videogame was paused, one of those first-person, alien-shooting games Faith had enjoyed during her stint as the Mayor's right-hand gal. Overall, the place was tidy and ordered, managing to be shabby and homey at the same time.

Connor crouched by the game console, shutting it off,and waved them to the plaid couch. He turned a blue armchair so that it faced them rather than the television and sat. "My roommates are at a work dinner," he said. "They should be gone for a while yet." He placed his hands on the armrests and squeezed. "I think I know why you're here," he continued. "And my answer's no."

"Aw, come on," Katie said, crossing her arms, then uncrossing them. "We didn't even ask our question." She turned to Faith. "Do we have a question?"

Faith shook her head. "I didn't get that far. I just…had to find him. You."

Connor frowned again. "That's it? You had a vision and came to find me and you don't even know why?"

"Yeah, man," Katie said, scooting to the edge of the couch so she could twist herself to face Faith more squarely. "This was a friggin' quest, and you don't even have a reason?"

"Look," Faith snapped, her gaze mostly on Katie, but flicking to incorporate Connor as well. "The dream didn't come with instructions, all right? I didn't get bullet points on 'how' and 'why.' I just knew I had to find him."

"'Cause Angel told you to," Katie said flatly.

"He did?" Connor's question came out as a whisper, and the hope in it made Faith's stomach twist.

"In my dream," she said. "He's still dead."

Connor flinched. "Right."

"He said you were important, but lost. And that I'd have to take care of you." She smiled. "And that you had his chin. He had this whole proud poppa thing goin' on. Kind of embarrassing, really."

Connor absently touched his chin while he thought, his gaze lost somewhere in the carpet. "Why would you need to take care of me?"

She shrugged. "You tell me. I just have the dreams."

He looked up at her, and the pain in his eyes made her forget to breathe. It was as powerful as anything she'd ever experienced in the deepest pits of her existence. "I don't want to fight anymore," he said. He blinked, and the haunted teenager was replaced with the normal one. "Don't take it personally, though. I told the Irish guy the same thing yesterday."

Faith straightened. "The Irish guy was here?" The question came out sharper than she meant it to, and Connor sat back in his chair, blinking.

"Yeah. He kept going on about taking up my father's mantle as a champion. He really liked that word, 'champion.' Got pretty poetic about it, really."

"So he wasn't trying to, you know, kill you?" Faith asked.

Connor shook his head. "Not that I noticed. I'm pretty sure I could've taken him, though." He smiled. "Last time I saw you, though, you pounded me pretty good. But I guess you don't remember that."

"Is anyone else really confused?" Katie asked. Elena raised her hand.

"I knew you," Faith said. Connor nodded. "And there was some wacky memory mojo." He nodded again. "When?" she asked.

"When Wesley broke you out of prison to help catch Angelus."

"I broke myself out of prison, thank you," she said distractedly, her mind racing through her memories of that time. She remembered Gunn, a cranky Cordy, a geeky girl named Fred. No Connor. "That is so weird."

"No kidding," he said. "I've got two sets of memories now."

"You going to explain this to us later?" Katie asked.

They were silent for a moment. Katie lounged in the corner of the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her. Faith leaned her elbows on her knees and stared at the floor as she continued running through memories, wondering how many others Connor had been wiped from. Connor drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair

Elena studied Connor, her face its usual abundance of interest and concern. She spoke so softly, it took a moment for the words to fully register in Faith's mind. "Did you know you are part demon?"

There was half a second of stunned silence before Katie leapt to her feet. "I knew it!" she cried.

Connor stared at his lap, but he didn't seem surprised by Elena's declaration.

"I don't care who his dad is, Faith," Katie continued. "Why are we sitting here talking to a demon?" She waved an arm in Connor's direction, her entire body tense.

"Sit down," Faith said. She stared at the taller Slayer, but Katie's only concession was to cross her arms and stare stonily back.

"He is a demon," she said, enunciating each word. "Just 'cause he looks human—"

"So do we," Faith snapped.

Katie froze with her mouth open, and Elena's gaze left Connor for the first time since he'd opened the door.

Faith rolled her eyes. "Where do you think the super powers come from? Eating your spinach? There was some sort of mystical demon-human cross-pollination thing way back when they made the first Slayer." She waved a hand in a vague gesture, relegating the origins of the Slayer to that murky category of things she didn't care enough to understand. "Giles explains it better. He needs to stop leaving it out of you newbies' Slayer 101 history crash course or whatever it is he's doing. Do you get a pamphlet or something?"

Neither of them answered her question, but Katie did return to the couch, sitting heavily enough to bounce Elena.

"You're all Slayers?" Connor asked.

Faith nodded once before addressing Elena. "How'd you know that, anyway, 'Lena?"

Elena looked from Faith to Connor and back. "I can feel it. You cannot?"

"I thought there was only one Slayer," Connor said, frowning at Faith.

"What do you mean you can _feel_ it?" Katie asked, frowning at Elena. "What on earth does that mean?"

"A witch made more," Faith said to Connor.

Elena said, "I don't know. I can just tell. He feels different."

"Do we feel different?" Katie asked.

"Yes, but not the same different as him."

Connor said, "That's why I don't want to fight." His statement put a stop to the flurry of words, and the Slayers' attention focused on him.

"I don't think we're asking you to fight," Elena said. "I don't think we're asking you to do anything."

Connor shifted in his chair. "Maybe not. But someday you might, and I need you to know that I can't."

"What makes you think we would?" Katie asked, not quite able to keep the scorn from her voice. "Just because you're all demony doesn't mean you'd be any use." She crossed her arms and made an obvious show of looking him up and down.

Faith would have told Katie to shut up and sit down, but she'd been about to ask the same question.

"I can fight," Connor said flatly. "I did. But I want to just pretend that half of my life didn't happen. Because I remember how much I liked it—the…fighting—and it scares me."

"Good," Faith said. She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but at Connor's gaze she elaborated. "It's good that it scares you. You like it too much, bad things happen."

Connor blinked, and the expression in his eyes shifted. "I remember," he said softly. "You were in prison for murder."

Faith stopped breathing. From the silence, everyone else had stopped breathing too, including Connor, whose eyes widened as he looked from Faith to the other Slayers and back.

Katie slowly unfolded her arms, and Faith met her stare. A string of ready excuses ran through her head. Katie's distrust of law enforcement would make it easy. A botched night of Slaying left her holding a dying woman when the cops showed up….

But Angel's words drowned them out. That it wouldn't be easy, that she'd never be done paying for what she'd done…but that it was still the right thing to do.

She stood.

"You beat up some people in a club," Katie said. She sounded confused, disbelieving. Suspicious.

"Did that, too," Faith said evenly. "Did a lot of stuff."

Katie drew herself up, clenching her fists. "Did you kill someone?"

"Yes."

Katie flinched as though the word was a physical attack. The betrayal and hurt on her face tore at Faith in the same way.

"I switched sides for a while," she said, trying to explain. "I was screwed up." _Still am_, she added to herself. _Just not as much_.

Katie swallowed. "I…I think I…"

"Do what you need to do," Faith said quietly.

Katie stared at her for another second, then, in four long strides, she moved to the apartment door, wrenched it open, and disappeared.

Faith closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to look at Elena. The younger Slayer looked back at her, her gaze steady and full of sorrow.

"I think I should go after her," Elena said.

Faith nodded.

When the other Slayer was gone and a string of long, awkward seconds had passed, Connor said, "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Not your fault," Faith said, the words feeling brittle. "Mine. I should go, too."

Connor nodded and also stood, and they moved to the door. Outside, Faith paused, scanning the area for her Slayers, but they were gone.

"I'm sure they'll…" Connor looked down at his feet.

Faith waved his words away. "They'll be all right. Just need some time," she said, wishing that were true. She turned toward him. "Look. I had that dream for a reason, and the only thing I know is the fight. I know you already said no, but maybe you need to reconsider."

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his face to meet her gaze one last time. "Angel gave up a lot for me to have a different life. I think the greatest thing I can do to honor him now is to live it. Don't you?"

All she could do was nod.

He went inside.

Faith stood on the walkway outside his door, alone. In just a few minutes she'd lost both her Slayers and Angel's son.

She needed something strong to drink or something hard to hit. Preferably both. She turned and made her way down the stairs.

There had to be a bar around here somewhere.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Doyle hunched over his drink, watching the liquid swirl as he moved the glass in small circles over the surface of the bar. He'd spent the day trying to come up with a brilliant argument to convince Connor to throw himself into the Good Fight, but somehow he doubted "chicks dig superheroes" would work, even at Connor's age. He'd used all his good reasons already—fulfilling Angel's legacy, because people needed his help, because he'd been born for a reason, because the Powers That Be said so—and Connor had neatly shot them down, saying that Angel hadn't wanted him to live that life, so he wasn't going to.

And then he had gently but firmly closed the door in Doyle's face.

Doyle lifted his head and stared in the mirror behind the bar. Why were there always mirrors behind the rows and rows of liquor bottles? Most people who went to bars wanted to forget who they were, not be reminded every time they looked up. Maybe it was a sales gimmick; seeing themselves in the mirror prompted more drinking. It was certainly working in Doyle's case. He'd apparently forgotten to comb his hair that morning, as one side was flat against his head, while the other side stuck out in unruly licks. He looked paler than usual, almost vampiric. He supposed that was handy, as he was in a demon bar. Made him fit in a little better. But then, vampires didn't have reflections, so it didn't really work.

Doyle sighed and knocked back half his drink, wondering what he was doing here anyway. There were dozens of perfectly decent human bars a few blocks away, but he'd taken the time to hunt down a demon establishment. He told himself it was professional interest, that he was casing the San Francisco demon population, trying to get a feel for things.

"Casing." Who did he think he was, Philip Marlowe? He should just invest in a fedora and a trench coat and start calling women "dames."

Judging by the fact that he wasn't sure what number this drink was, his presence in a demon bar had less to do with investigative aspirations and more to do with resurfacing bad habits.

He stared down at the remains of his drink, the amber liquid looking increasingly inviting. Demon whiskey always had an extra kick to it, some mysterious flavor he couldn't identify and was afraid to ask about. He hadn't had any in years.

He pushed the glass away and stood, catching onto the bar with one hand to steady himself as his head momentarily spun. When he was certain of his balance, he took a step away from the bar and turned, nearly smashing his nose into the furry chest of something much, much taller than he was.

Doyle jumped half a step backward and tilted his head up, the whiskey churning in his stomach.

The churlach demon squinted down at him, snout wriggling. "Doyle," it said, its voice rumbling out from its chest.

Doyle swallowed. "Hi, Grot. Nice to see you again. When did you move up here?"

Grot waved a massive, clawed hand, and Doyle ducked slightly out of reflex. "You disappear," it rumbled. "Still owe me money."

Doyle tried to look shocked and horrified. The horror came more easily. "You mean you didn't get my package? I left a package with Deng for you before I left." He looked quickly around the bar, praying Deng wasn't here as well. He didn't see any more churlachs, but that wasn't all that comforting. One was enough. "I swear. I can't believe he didn't give it to you."

Grot paused for a moment. "Deng dead."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Doyle said quickly. "What happened?"

"Train."

Doyle flinched. "Err…tragic." But not surprising. Deng hadn't been that smart.

"You owe money," Grot said.

"Oh, of course, not a problem." Doyle inched to the side, trying to circle around the churlach enough to make a break for the door. Churlachs were big, but they weren't all that fast. "Look, I've only got change on me at the moment, but I can run back to my hotel and get what I owe you. How much was it again?" The last bus out of town was at 10:30. He could take a cab to the hotel, get his stuff, and—

Grot swept out a hand, catching Doyle in the shoulder and smashing him back into the bar. He grabbed onto it with both hands, trying to stay on his feet. The whiskey was affecting his head again.

"Not leave," Grot said. "Disappear again."

Grot, apparently, was smarter then Deng.

"What do we have here?" a new voice said. A woman's voice. Human. Which in a demon bar could only mean one thing.

Doyle slowly pushed himself upright, trying to figure out why the voice sounded familiar. Grot had turned, presenting Doyle with its massive back, exhibiting that it considered him completely harmless. He'd have been offended if it weren't true.

His brain began to function again, and Doyle placed the voice: the exotic, lead Slayer he'd seen at the bus station in Phoenix. If she was here, that meant she'd found Connor. Doyle's head cleared almost instantly. He looked at the bar entrance, waiting for her two companions to show up, but she seemed to be alone. He wasn't sure what that meant. Were they injured? Had they attacked Connor, and the boy had managed to take them out of the fight? If this Slayer was here, was Connor even still alive?

"So, wolfie," the Slayer said, "I see you're pounding on something a lot smaller than you."

"Not wolf," Grot snarled. "Werewolf vermin." He punctuated this statement with something remarkably like a bark.

"Looked in a mirror lately? There's one right behind you. You look awful wolfy to me."

Grot snarled again.

"Anyway," the Slayer continued, "you're pounding on something. I want to pound on something. And you look more fun than your prey, there."

There was a pause as the Slayer and demon stared each other down, and Doyle slowly backed away, trying to circle around the confrontation and reach the door. The other patrons of the bar—few this early—stared with interest and a complete lack of concern at what promised to be a good show. Doyle managed to move far enough for the Slayer to become visible around Grot's massive, quivering back, and he started to feel hopeful. If they just kept each distracted for a few more seconds, a few more steps, he'd have a clear path to the door.

The Slayer raised a hand and pointed at him without taking her eyes off the demon. "You won't make it six steps before there's a stake in your back," she said calmly, obviously enjoying herself.

Doyle froze, made his decision, and raised his hands in surrender. "I belie—"

Grot attacked.

The Slayer sidestepped, bringing her fists above her head and clasping them together as she spun, then slamming them into Grot's neck as it lunged past her. Grot stumbled, and the Slayer followed with a kick to his lower back. Grot's head hit the wall, and its body hit the floor. The Slayer advanced, her strides long and confident.

"Aww, did the puppy bump its head?" she asked.

Grot, in the process of pushing itself off the ground, swung a long arm behind itself and smashed its fist into the Slayer's face, whipping her head to the side and knocking her back a step. The moment it took her to regain her equilibrium was all Grot needed to get to its feet.

One of the Slayer's hands came up to touch her cheekbone. "All right," she said with a grin and a nod, "puppy wants to play."

Grot lunged again, but was stopped in midair by the Slayer's fist. Her strike knocked the demon sideways, and it fell to its hands and knees, its head scarcely a foot from Doyle's shoes. Doyle leapt back. The last thing he wanted right now was to get dragged into this fight. What he needed was a way to check on Connor.

The Slayer shook her hand. "Man, you've got a hard head." She turned the dazed churlach onto its back with her boot, then straddled it. She punched it three more times with the same fist, then straightened and shook her hand out again.

"Well, that was fun," she said to the unconscious demon, "but way too easy."

Doyle wondered if he should try for the door again, but considering she had just pulverized a churlach demon in less than twenty seconds, he figured he'd last about three. Running was out, but maybe he could play the victim angle. That wouldn't take too much acting; if she hadn't shown up, he'd be the one unconscious on the floor.

"Thanks," he said, giving her his most endearing smile. "I don't think I'd have done nearly as well against him."

The Slayer stared at him, her aching hand forgotten at her side. Doyle's smile faltered.

"You're Irish," she said.

He swallowed. "Err, yes."

She crossed the distance between them impossibly fast. Her hand fastened onto his jacket collar and yanked, pulling him off his feet. She dragged him toward the bar exit.

"Hey!" Doyle shouted, his feet scrambling against the floor, his hands against her grip. Neither were effective.

As she dragged him over the threshold, one of the demons in a booth across the room waved jauntily. Then he was outside and the Slayer was tossing him into the street.

Doyle grunted as he hit the pavement and rolled. He pushed himself to his feet and angrily demanded, "What the hell was that for?" The part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation screamed that shouting at a Slayer probably wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but he was too angry to care. She was either going to kill him or she wasn't, and he doubted he'd be able to change her mind either way.

Instead of answering his question, she merely crossed her arms and began to circle him slowly, eyeing him like prey. "You look human," she said, "but you were in a demon bar, so I'm guessin' not. Vampire?" She pulled a stake from her back pocket, lifting it threateningly. She smiled as Doyle flinched, then lowered it. "Nah. You had a reflection. Are you playing host?" She stopped circling and took a step toward him. Doyle barely managed to hold his ground. "I don't have the fancy demon-sensing skills some other Slayers have," she said, "so you're going to have to tell me. What are you?"

Doyle ground his teeth together for a second before spitting out, "Half."

She nodded and stepped back, the stake disappearing back into her pocket. "Half Irish, half demon. That's a new one."

"That why you tossed me? 'Cause I'm Irish? You don't sound like a limey." Doyle crossed his arms, finding it surprisingly easy to look defiant.

She placed a hand over her heart and adopted a mock hurt expression. "Me? Have something against the Irish? Dude, I grew up in Boston, solid Irish neighborhood. Hell, my last name's Lehane." She crossed her arms in a more sinister interpretation of Doyle's body language, her face hardening. "You spoke to Connor."

"What'd you do to him?" Doyle demanded.

That seemed to surprise her. "What'd _I _do to him? What do you want with him?"

"What do _you _want with him?" he countered.

They stood for a long moment, staring each other down, and Doyle must have still retained some vestige of the authority that had allowed him to maintain control over a room of nine-year-olds, because the Slayer broke first.

Her face fell. "I don't know," she said, sounding young and old at the same time. "I just…needed to know he was real. That there was still…" She turned her face away from him, and her crossed arms went from a threatening gesture to one of vulnerability, as though she were attempting to protect or comfort herself.

Doyle slowly unfolded his arms and hazarded a guess. "That there was still something of Angel left in the world?"

Her head snapped around and for half a second, as she stared at him with her mouth open, he thought she was going to cry. But then she gathered herself, her face went blank, and her posture resumed its original air of arrogance and defiance. "You knew Angel?" she asked, her voice a perfect mix of casual and dismissive, as though the answer held no interest for her.

Doyle didn't believe it for a second.

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "I knew him when he first moved to L.A. You could say I was kind of a mentor of his." She raised an eyebrow, and Doyle's smile widened. "Though you'd be grossly exaggerating. I did convince him to start up that little business of his, though."

She didn't move, just watched him through narrowed eyes. He opened his mouth to explain, but what came out was, "Ow." He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heel of his palm into his temple. "Ow, ow, ow."

He vaguely heard the Slayer say, "What? What's wrong?" She said something else a second later, her voice closer, but he couldn't spare her any attention, involuntarily focused as he was on the images flooding his brain.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, he found he was on his knees with his hands pressed to either side of his head, holding it together. The Slayer's face was very close to his, so close his eyes had trouble focusing on her, and he was certain the only reason he wasn't lying on his face in the street was that she held onto both his shoulders.

He'd forgotten how badly visions and alcohol mixed. He felt like throwing up. Closing his eyes again, he focused on breathing, randomly remembering a phrase from his college days: _beer before liquor, never sicker_. He'd have to make up a new one. _Liquor before vision, cranial schism. _Which might have worked, if he actually knew when he was going to have a vision.

On the other hand, whiskey had always been his favorite painkiller. Maybe the Slayer had a flask on her.

"Did you just have a seizure or something?" she asked, frowning. "I don't need to take you to a hospital, do I?"

He grunted and swatted at one of her hands, then regretted it as she let go and he nearly toppled over. "Wasn't a seizure," he said, struggling to his feet. She didn't help him up. "It was a vision."

"Vision? Of what?" She looked suspicious again.

"Of a nice couple staying in a hotel downtown who are going to get eaten by vampires in about twenty minutes." He looked at her, keeping one hand against his forehead. It seemed to help. "Unless you do something about it."

"Me?"

He made a show of looking around the deserted street. "I don't see any other superheroes around. And if the Powers That Be sent me a vision while you're here, they must be expecting you to take care of it."

"What about you? You're half-demon."

He shrugged. "Not the useful half, as far as killing things goes."

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and let it slide out. "Visions from the Powers. Like the ones Cordy got."

"I had them first," he said.

She nodded. "And have them again, now."

"Yeah."

She looked over her shoulder at the entrance to the demon bar. "I need a _real _fight." Turning back to Doyle, she said, "Which hotel?"

* * *

"Go," Doyle said, giving the man a push. "And stay away from alleys from now on." The man's wife clung to him, her hair mussed and her eyes wide, and the couple staggered out of the alley, frightened but unharmed. Tomorrow they'd have a great story about surviving a mugging. 

A crash behind him made Doyle turn just in time to see the Slayer bounce off a dumpster. She rolled to her feet, grinning, and threw herself at the remaining three vamps. The first one was already gone. The others didn't last much longer.

As the dust dissipated, the Slayer shoved her stake into her back pocket and straightened her jacket. "That was more like it," she said. She strode toward him and stopped close enough to look him in the face. "So you were Angel's first seer."

He nodded.

"And now you want to be Connor's seer."

"That seems to be the cosmic plan."

She studied him for another second, then stuck out her hand. "I'm Faith."

"Doyle."

"I think we need to talk."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Connor scuffed his feet on the sidewalk. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, not caring if it made him look like a petulant child. He almost wished he were a child again. When he was eight, no one asked him to save the world. No one implied he was failing all of humanity by choosing to be an architect instead of a hero.

Of course, his childhood had been spent in a hell dimension with a man he both loved and hated.

But then, he could also remember watching cartoons and games of kickball and playing with his Transformers.

He focused on the fake memory as he usually did, but the real ones were becoming harder and harder to deny. They filled his dreams and pounced on him without warning during the day. He'd be in class, giving half his attention to the professor's power point presentation on Byzantine architecture, and the force of sudden memory would nearly knock him out of his chair.

They came more frequently now, the memories, some more disturbing than others. Yesterday he'd remembered the first time Holtz had tied him to a tree and left. He was seven, terrified and alone in hell. Holtz hadn't gone far; it had taken Connor longer to free himself—once he stopped crying—than it had to find him. But that juvenile fear had risen up inside Connor yesterday while he refilled his Nalgene at the water fountain, as strong and pure as the day he'd first experienced it. The bottle had slipped from his hands, splashing water all over the floor, soaking his shoes.

The cold water seeping through his socks had snapped him out of the memory—out of the fear—and he'd used paper towels from the restroom to mop up the mess, thankful no one walked by. He'd returned to the cubicle he shared with the other three interns, shaken and distracted for the rest of the day.

Today he'd been answering an email when he remembered the woman the thing pretending to be Cordelia had killed. He could hear his mother's voice, begging him to stop it, but Cordy's had been stronger. He'd dragged the woman into the center of the pentagram and watched as Cordy slit her throat.

He'd leapt from his chair and raced to the restroom, barely managing to keep the bile at bay until he was safely on his knees in a stall. When he'd thrown up everything in his stomach and then some, he'd walked out of the building, needing to get away from anyone who might ask him if he was okay. If they did, he was sure he'd break down.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking, or where he was, and he didn't care. He only knew he couldn't go back to the office today, couldn't force himself to smile and act normal and talk to people who had no idea what this world was really like. What _he_ was really like.

He stopped walking, realizing he should probably call his boss, tell her he was sick. He gave the street a cursory scan, looking for a phone booth, then pulled his right hand from his pocket so he could see his watch.

A soft voice behind him said, "Almost two."

Connor spun, his hands halfway to a defensive position. The small, Hispanic Slayer—Laina?—stood looking up at him, her hands clasped behind her back. Connor blinked and lowered his hands.

"Are you following me?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Why?"

"To see what—who—you are." She cocked her head and continued to study him.

Connor looked past her for Faith or the tall one—they hadn't gotten around to introductions yesterday—but didn't see either of them. "Where's Faith?"

The girl shrugged. "At the hotel, perhaps. Maybe looking for me and Katie. I'm not sure."

"So where's Katie?"

Her face fell a little and she finally looked away. "I don't know. I couldn't find her." Her eyes came back to him, and he realized she was older than he'd originally thought. Still young, but not a child.

"You're upset," she said. "Is it our fault?"

Connor shoved his hands back into his pockets and examined the building across the street, dissecting it as he decided how to answer. "No," he said after a moment. "Not your fault. Just…I keep remembering things. Not fun things."

Her touch surprised him. She lightly took hold of his forearm and tugged him forward. Pointing across the street, she said, "There's a park. Let's sit."

He followed her, having nowhere else to go. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Elena." She looked both ways, then dashed across the street, her hand still on his arm.

"How do you know the things you know?" he asked when they reached the opposite sidewalk.

She looked at him questioningly.

"I mean, the demon stuff, and that I was upset."

She smiled and turned away to walk toward a bench. Once they were both seated, she replied, "I'm a Slayer. And anyone who walks for thirty-seven blocks without looking up, hunched as you were, must be upset."

He smiled. "I suppose that was pretty obvious, huh? But Faith and Katie didn't pick up the demon thing. You did."

She looked at the sky, closing her eyes against the sunlight. "I'm not as good a fighter as they are, not as big or strong. I think God enhanced this gift to compensate."

Connor grunted and looked at his shoes.

They sat in silence for a while, until Elena spoke again.

"I saw you last night," she said, glancing sideways at him. "You killed a vampire."

"You've been following me that long?" he asked. "Where did you sleep? _Did _you sleep?"

She shrugged. "I've had worse nights."

He looked at her, wondering if she would answer if he asked about her life. She beat him to it.

"You said you don't want to fight, but last night you went out looking…"

He looked at his hands and brought his thumbs and fingertips together, then opened them again. "I was curious. If I could still do it."

"You're good," she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.

He swallowed and pressed his palms against his knees. "But what if I'm the same as they are? I keep remembering things from my real life, memories belatedly pushing their way to the surface, and they're horrible. The things I've done…" He stopped, tightly holding onto his control. "I know what I'm capable of. I'm the child of two vampires—an abomination." He looked up and smiled sardonically. "Maybe you should fulfill your Slayer duties by killing me."

"Is that what you want?" she asked evenly.

He blinked. He _had _wanted it, once. It was the last memory of his old life, what had prompted Angel to give him a fresh start. And now…

"No," he said.

Elena stood, and he briefly wondered if she was going to kill him anyway. If she tried, would he be able to stop her? His hands tightened on his knees.

"I don't think you're an abomination," she said, looking down at him.

"Then what am I?"

She looked at the sky again, then at something past his shoulder before bringing her eyes back to his. "I think perhaps you are a miracle."

Connor dropped his face into his hands so she couldn't see him cry.

* * *

"Miss Crawford?" 

Katie paused. Six months ago she'd have run, but things were different now. She turned, a gruff "yeah?" on her lips, but when she saw who it was, the word became a startled, "You!"

Norberry smiled without showing his teeth and dipped his head in a condescending little bow. "It's nice to see you again, Miss Crawford." His English accent was gone, as were the glasses and the simpering, bumbling demeanor. This Norberry oozed confidence and something else Katie couldn't identify. Something that frightened her a little.

"What do you want?" she demanded. Before he could answer, she added, "How do you know my name? How did you find me?"

"Wolfram & Hart has extensive connections, Miss Crawford. It's extremely hard to escape our attention once you've gained it." He looked at her appreciatively. "And you, my dear, have definitely garnered our attention."

Katie crossed her arms. "Whatever the hell you want, the answer's no. Faith told me all about you guys." She turned and strode off, tense but trying not to show it.

Norberry called after her, "And you believe the words of a murderer?"

Katie stopped.

She heard a footstep, then another, and when Norberry spoke again he was closer. "We know about Faith, as well. Perhaps more than she knows about herself." Another step, his voice close to her ear, low and intimate. "And we know about Connor. _All _about Connor. And we think you should, too."

It took Katie only three heartbeats to make her decision. She turned, looked hard at Norberry, and nodded.

* * *

Faith shoved her hamburger in her mouth, taking a huge bite and chewing fiercely. She wiped some ketchup from the corner of her mouth and looked up at Doyle, who was staring at her with a slightly alarmed look on his face. 

"You're going to choke yourself," he said.

She shook her head and said, "Ah don' cah."

He frowned at her.

She swallowed and repeated, "I don't care. I haven't had a _real _meal in, God, I don't even know." She put three fries in her mouth. "Since before all this began."

Doyle looked down at his plate and club sandwich. "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

Faith reached across the table with the hand not holding her hamburger, snatched Doyle's sandwich, and plopped it on her plate.

"Hey!" He snatched it back, glaring at her. She grinned and took another bite of her hamburger. "I'm a _little _hungry," he grumbled, eyeing his sandwich suspiciously.

They didn't speak for several minutes, while Faith devoured her hamburger, fries, and half of Doyle's fries. When he set the last third of his sandwich down, full, she picked it up and ate that too.

Doyle looked around the hotel dining room. "This is pretty posh. You Slayers must have a nice budget."

Faith shrugged. "We've been in dives for so long, I thought it was time to splurge a bit. Girl gets tired of motel rooms with cement block walls. Too much like—" She covered by drinking the rest of her water, but Doyle didn't seem to notice her aborted sentence. He was scratching the back of his neck and watching a family at a nearby table. Faith wondered where on earth he found his shirts, as the one he wore today was even worse than the one he'd been in last night. She rather liked his jacket, though.

As she set her glass down, he glanced at her to let her know he was listening, then went back to watching the family. "Must be tiring, bouncing from place to place like that," he said, sliding down in his seat a little and playing with his fork.

Faith shrugged. "I guess. Want dessert?"

"Sure."

She ordered the Brownie Chocolate Explosion, and Doyle asked for a caramel sundae. While they waited, he asked her when she'd met Angel. Instead, she told him about the last time she'd seen him, about Angelus and Orpheus. When their desserts arrived—Faith's on a plate she could have used as a sled—Doyle talked about he and Angel's first mission —"Well, Angel's; I just drove the getaway car."

As he wrapped up his story, Faith's fork stopped halfway to her mouth, dripping chocolate syrup. She squinted at Doyle. "Wait…Cordy? You and _Cordy?_" She gaped at him for a moment, then burst into laughter as he turned bright pink.

"Sort of," he said. "Not really. I mean, I left before we could—"

"_Cordy?_"

He set his jaw. "Yeah. And?"

"Nothin'. She's hot. It's just, she's a bit of a…well, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "So are you."

She grinned. "Oh, believe me, Cordy and I are in very different classes." Her forgotten fork completed the short distance to her mouth, and she closed her eyes in appreciation. The brownie was almost two inches thick and so gooey it was practically fudge. When she opened her eyes again, Doyle was staring at nothing, his face filled with a sorrow that made the brownie stick in her throat, and she remembered that Cordelia was dead.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Doyle's eyes slowly focused on her, and he smiled sadly. "Thanks. I'm sorry, too. About Angel."

"We weren't—"

"I know. I'm still sorry."

She nodded and kept her head bent over her dessert until it was finished. As she pushed her plate away, a soft voice said, "Faith."

Elena stood near their table, wearing the same clothes she'd left in yesterday. Faith resisted the urge to scramble to her feet, instead saying, "Hey." But then, a second later, she blurted, "You came back."

"I couldn't find her," Elena said. "I hoped she came back."

"I…are you sure?" Faith asked.

Elena cocked her head. "That I didn't find her? Yes."

"No." Faith shook her head a second longer than felt normal. "That…that you wanted to come back."

Elena's face softened, and she said, "Whatever the Faith-you-were did, the Faith-you-are-now would not do. I believe this." Faith swallowed and nodded once, and Elena's eyes darted to Doyle and back.

Faith had forgotten about him. He was studying her, trying to figure out what they were talking about, but she wasn't going to explain now. Not yet. Instead she tiled her head in his direction and said, "This is Doyle. The Irish guy. Doyle, this is Elena."

He waved.

Elena opened her mouth, but Faith talked over her. "And I already know he's half demon. He also gets visions from the Powers That Be."

Elena's eyes widened. "Like a prophet?"

Doyle blinked and said, "Uh…"

"Kinda," Faith said. "He used to work with Angel."

Elena nodded, then looked over her shoulder.

"Are you hungry?" Faith asked.

The younger girl shook her head. "No, I had some cash." She looked over her shoulder again.

"_What?_" Faith demanded. "Something chasing you? Or do you have a hot date?"

Elena smiled. "No, but I think you do." She turned and pointed. "With him."

Connor paused at the entrance to the dining room, scanning the tables. He found them after a few seconds, and Faith watched him waver for a moment in the doorway before walking toward them. She still found it hard to take her eyes off him, not yet used to the impossibility he represented.

"What'd you do?" Doyle asked Elena, sounding impressed.

She shrugged. "Nothing. Told him something he needed to hear, perhaps."

Connor stopped next to Elena and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looked from Faith to Doyle, frowning.

"Oh," he said. "You know each other."

"Only very recently," Doyle said. "She dragged me out of a bar by the collar last night, and we discovered we had similar interests." He raised his water glass in a small salute and took a sip.

Connor said, "Right." He turned to Faith and pulled his hands from his pockets, letting them dangle at his sides in a casually defensive stance. "I think I know what the dream means," he said. "Why you need to take care of me."

Faith stared up at him, somehow knowing, from the expression on his face, what he would say next.

"I killed someone, too," he said.

She could see the effort the words cost him, and any lingering doubts she had about him, about the whole crazy situation, faded quietly away. This was something she knew about, something she could do. She could help Connor walk the thin line of becoming what he was meant to be without returning to what he was. She could be for Connor what Angel had been for her. And maybe he could help her, as well.

She looked at Doyle, who met her gaze with a somber one of his own. Seeing her suspicions mirrored in his face as certainty, she said to Connor, "No, you didn't."

He blinked, and she could see how fiercely he hung on to his control. "I helped. I stood by and let it happen. Isn't that the same thing?"

Faith met his desperation evenly. "I don't know."

Connor looked down. "Feels like the same thing."

"It can, at that," Doyle said softly.

They were all quiet a moment, until Connor took a deep breath and raised his head.

"I'll fight with you," he said, looking at Faith. "As long…as long as you can promise that you won't let me—"

"That's why I'm here. Why we're all here," she added, nodding at Doyle and Elena. "To watch out for each other." As soon as she said it, she knew it was true.

Connor gave her a small smile.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"I think setting up in San Francisco is better," Faith said. "Bigger city, bigger problems. Unless there's a hellmouth in Stanford?" She blinked innocently at Doyle.

He frowned. "No. But it's closer to Connor."

Faith shrugged. "He's not the only fighter. He'll be here in the summers, and he can come up on weekends when he's in the mood. If we find a place on the south side, it'll only be about an hour's trip."

They sat at the hotel room's desk, tiny pieces of paper with the hotel's crest scattered across its surface. Faith twirled a pen in one hand, leaning back in the desk chair, her boots crossed over the papers on which Doyle had made painstaking calculations for rent, start-up capital, and utilities. The Irishman half-sat, half-lay in an armchair, his chin resting on his chest. Elena had fled to the shower, eager to wash away the grime of her night on the street. Connor had gone home hours ago.

Faith dropped the pen and swore. She couldn't reach it from the chair, so she leaned forward and snatched another off the desk, leaving the first one on the floor.

"He won't be able to go out every night," Doyle said. "He needs to stay focused on school."

Faith rolled her eyes. "You sound like his mom. I'm not gonna jeopardize his schooling, laddie." Doyle shot her a dark look, which she ignored. "Boy should finish his college. One of us needs to have a real education."

"Hey!" Doyle protested, sitting up a little in his chair. "I used to be a teacher, for your information."

Faith stopped twirling the pen. "Yeah? What'd you teach?"

"Third grade."

Faith smirked. "Man, you just get wussier and wussier."

He threw a pen at her. She caught it with her free hand and proceeded to twirl it as well, performing a miniature baton act.

"One of these days you're going to have to tell me about when you killed someone," Doyle said.

She nearly dropped a pen, but covered by pointing it at him. "Hey—if you could work with Angel, you can work with me."

Doyle raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not saying I can't."

"It's his fault I'm a goody-two-shoes now, anyway," she went on. She stabbed the pen at him again. "And you have to tell me how you know that letting someone die feels the same as killing them yourself."

"Deal," he said.

"Just not now."

"No," he agreed. "Not now."

She resumed twirling the pens. "We've got all of Wesley's books," she said, getting back to business. "So at least we'll have some resources. If any of us can read them."

"Maybe Connor can take a course in Ancient Demonic Languages."

Faith snorted. Her eyes drifted to the window and the buildings outside painted in the red light of the sunset. She frowned, and her boots thumped onto the floor. It would be dark soon, and Katie hadn't come back, not even to pick up her things. Faith stood and crossed to the bedside stand. She picked up her stake and slid it into her back pocket.

Doyle leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. "Going somewhere?"

"To find Katie," she answered. She wasn't sure where or how, but she had to try.

"Ah," Doyle said. "I was wondering about her." Faith gave him a look, and he smiled. "You heard about me, I heard about you. And I, uh, saw you in the Phoenix bus station. We took the same bus to L.A."

Faith blinked, then shook her head and laughed quietly. "Guess we were going to meet up one way or another, huh?"

"Guess so," he said. As Faith shrugged into her jacket, he asked, "Why'd she leave?"

Faith paused in the act of pulling her hair free of the collar. "She saw things in black and white, and then found out they were really gray. She didn't like it." She flipped her hair free and straightened her jacket.

The sound of the shower stopped, and Doyle tilted his head in the direction of the bathroom door. "And Elena? She's still here."

Faith's smile was more revealing than she intended it to be, but she couldn't take it back now. "I don't think anything is black for Elena. Tell her where I've gone?"

He nodded and she turned toward the door. Her hand was on the knob when she heard him shout. She whirled to see him fall forward out of his chair, his hands fisted in his hair. He landed on his shoulder, and by the time the rest of his body hit the ground, she was next to him. She pulled him into a semi-upright position and held onto his shoulders, steadying him as the vision swept through him in waves.

After only a few seconds, his fingers relaxed and he opened his eyes.

"I know where she is," he gasped. One of his hands groped until it found her forearm, his grip strong enough to actually hurt.

"Where?" she whispered.

"Connor's."

* * *

Faith burst through the hotel doors, Doyle and a still-dripping Elena close behind her. "How much time?" she shouted, pausing on the sidewalk. 

"I don't know," Doyle answered. "All I saw was the bloody big knife she was carrying."

"Then we assume that means now." Faith scanned the street, looking for a cab, then gave up and began to run.

"Hey!" Doyle yelped. He wouldn't be able to keep up, but she couldn't worry about that now. She could hear Elena behind her, could almost see the younger girl's hair flying behind her in wet tangles. It was only fifteen blocks to Connor's apartment, a little over a mile. Running flat out, she and Elena should be able to get there in just over three minutes.

She hoped that was fast enough.

They dodged through traffic, Faith leaping over the hood of a Civic at one point. As they turned the corner, only three blocks from Connor's Faith slammed into a man. The force of the impact sent him flying backwards, screaming. Faith spun, trying to keep her balance, and Elena's hair whipped her in the face as the younger girl sprinted past. As the man hit the pavement, Faith completed her spin and picked up her pace, a few steps behind Elena. She didn't look back.

They reached the parking lot of Connor's complex, and Elena slowed, letting Faith take the lead. Faith looked up, her eyes searching for Connor's door. She found it just as it exploded into splinters.

Connor flew through the door, staggered the three steps across the walkway, and flipped over the banister. He tumbled through the air, falling three stories to land on his back on the roof of a Buick. The windows exploded outward, one piece flying far enough to slice Faith's cheek several yards away. Connor rolled off the car and onto the pavement.

She was close enough to hear him groan as he tried to push himself off the ground, collapsing twice before he made it to his hands and knees. She skidded to a stop next to him, reaching for him, but Elena's cry stopped her.

"Katie!"

Faith looked back up. Katie leaned over the banister, one hand resting almost casually on it. With a slight bounce, she vaulted over the edge and landed in a crouch a few feet from Faith. Her lip was bleeding, and in her left hand was an ornate knife Faith had never seen before. The tip was red.

Faith straightened.

"Hey, Faith," Katie said.

Faith matched her conversational tone. "What're you doing, Katie?"

"My job."

Connor had made it to his knees, one arm pressed against his stomach. Blood stained the front of his shirt.

Faith glanced at him. "I don't see how killing a boy is your job."

Katie pointed the knife in her hand at Connor. "It is with him. I've seen what he's done, Faith. I've seen what he is. Did you know he tried to blow up a sporting goods store? Hostages and everything."

Faith didn't have time to be shocked or horrified; her past didn't give her the right, anyway. "That's a pretty toy," she said, nodding at the knife in the other girl's hand. "Where'd you get it?"

Katie drew back a bit, her eyes narrowed. "Norberry," she admitted.

Faith laughed. "You believed him?"

"He showed me their file on your little Connor here," Katie spat, "including a video of the store's security feed. Completely nuts."

"That was before," Connor said, his voice rough.

"Exactly," Katie said. "It what's you really are. What you'll be again when the mojo wears off."

Connor pushed himself to his feet.

"You all right?" Faith asked without taking her eyes off Katie.

"Yeah," he grunted. "It's shallow. Just bleeding a lot."

Elena pulled Connor back a few steps. Katie shifted her grip on her knife and moved to follow, but Faith stepped in front of her.

"You can't believe anything Wolfram and Hart tells you. They're just using you to get rid of Connor."

"Yeah, well I'm okay with that," Katie gritted. "Their goal happens to align with mine in this case."

"They are _evil_," Faith stressed. "If you do this, you're helping the bad guys."

"You're a murderer!" Katie screamed, waving the knife. "Who am I helping when I help you? I can't believe anything you say, either! You've lied to us—who's that?"

Faith heard a car door slam and then footsteps, but didn't turn from Katie to look. Elena said, "This is Doyle."

"Doyle?" Katie repeated.

"Our new half-Irish, half-demon prophet," Faith explained.

Katie paled, and her breathing sped up. "More demons? Why don't you just open a demon bar and serve up human snacks?" The tone of her voice crept higher with each word.

Doyle started to speak, but Faith held out a hand, stopping him. "Maybe when I retire," she said. "But until then, I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing the whole time you've known me: fighting the fight. As a good guy. And these are good guys, too."

Katie shook her head and took a step forward, her eyes on Connor.

"Katie," Elena said, moving to stand beside Faith, "none of us are what we were. Faith, Connor. Me, you. You stole cars."

"I never killed anyone!" Katie shouted. "I never hurt anybody!"

"Are you sure?" Elena asked. "Maybe the cars you stole were sold to people who used them to make drive-by shootings. Maybe a family, because they had no car, had to make their children walk to school, and the children were kidnapped or killed."

"You don't know that!" Katie screamed. She paused, collecting herself, her knuckles white on the knife. "That's all hypothetical. And if it did happen, it wasn't my fault. I had no control over it. But this—" She pointed at Connor, then at Doyle. "—this I can control. I'm a Slayer. They're demons. End of story."

"No," Faith said. "Beginning of story. Not all demons are bad, just like not all humans are good. Most are somewhere in between. I'm proof of that. We're all proof of that."

Katie's whole body shook with her head. "I can't accept that."

Faith shrugged. "Then I'm sorry."

She turned the shrug into a punch, catching Katie in the jaw. The taller girl spun, recovering quickly, but not quickly enough to stop Faith's boot from impacting her ribs.

Then it became a whirl of limbs, instinct, and training. Katie fought desperately, angrily, a style Faith knew well. She was forced to focus most of her energy and attention on avoiding Katie's knife, dodging and spinning, slipping in blows when she could. As they fought, she caught glimpses of the others. Doyle supported Connor, who looked battered but alert, ready to reenter the fray if needed. Elena stood a step in front of them, feet spread and stake in hand, the look on her face a tortured mix of emotions.

Katie's blade bit through Faith's jacket, slicing her arm. Faith caught her knife wrist in her other hand, spun down the length of Katie's arm, and slammed her elbow into the taller girl's nose. The force of the blow sent Katie staggering backward, and Faith adjusted her grip on the other Slayer's wrist, forcing the joint to overextend. A spasm ran through Katie's fingers, and their grip on the knife loosened. Faith wrenched it out of her hand, then grabbed the still off-balance girl by the throat and slammed her into a nearby van, the knife poised over her heart.

They stayed in that position for eight long seconds, staring at each other. Faith's hand twitched, remembering the feel of the blade sliding through human flesh and longing to feel it again. Katie's eyes were large and dark, and Faith realized the ragged breathing echoing in her ears was her own.

She lowered the knife but kept her grip on Katie's throat.

"You've got a choice," she said, her voice hoarse. "You can leave, go it alone. Live alone, fight alone, die alone. Or you can stay with us." She paused. "Your family."

She could feel Katie's pulse beneath her fingers. After ten beats, Katie took a deep, shuddering breath, and her eyes filled with tears. She began to cry, deep, silent sobs that shook her frame. Faith dropped the knife and pulled the younger Slayer into her arms.

As they sank to the pavement, a small pair of arms joined Faith's, encircling Katie, and a masculine hand settled on each of her shoulders. Faith looked up, her eyes moving from Elena's face to Doyle's to Connor's, and her mind was filled with memories of a different rain-soaked alley: not where a champion had died, but where a Slayer had been born.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Four months later_

Faith leaned her chair back on two legs, held the wadded mass of paper above her head like a basketball, and lofted it toward the trash can in the corner of the room. "Swish!" she cried, raising her fists in triumph.

"You do that every time," Doyle said. "Stop bragging."

"And I'm pretty sure no one says 'swish,' anymore," Katie called from the other side of the room as she sent her own wad of paper into the wastebasket.

Ignoring the implication that she was even moderately out-of-touch—she blamed prison—Faith let the front legs of the chair _thump _back to the floor and addressed Doyle. "You're just jealous because you have lousy aim." She tugged at the paper beneath his Subway sandwich, and he slammed a hand down on it.

"Why do you always try to steal _my _food?" he demanded.

She grinned. "Because the others are still-growing super-beings, and you—" She looked pointedly at his stomach. "—could do with a little less eating."

He glared at her and took a huge bite of his sandwich. She snatched the paper, crumpled it, and sent it sailing toward the trash can, ignoring his food-muffled protests.

Elena walked through the room's doorway and directly into the path of the paper projectile. She caught it before it bounced off her face and tossed it casually over her shoulder and into the trash. "Look who I found!" she said, smiling. She moved out of the doorway so Connor could come in.

"_Now _it's a party," Katie said. She sat up from her lounging position on the couch, shifting to make room for the others.

"We didn't think you were coming until tomorrow," Doyle said.

Connor shrugged. "Sadly, I had nothing better to do on a Friday night then take a bus trip." He walked into the room and plopped onto the couch next to Katie.

"We didn't get you any dinner," Faith said. She tossed the remaining sandwich on the table to Elena, who caught it and sat between Katie and Connor.

"I ate before I left. Anything going on?" Connor asked, his legs stretched out in front of him.

"Not really," Faith said. "Figured we'd do a routine patrol, see what we could find."

"Uh, no, we won't," Doyle said.

Faith turned toward him, then snatched his sandwich from his hands when she saw his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Dropping the sandwich to the safety of the table, she caught Doyle by the shoulders, keeping his head from hitting anything as the vision ran its course.

By the time it was over, Connor already had the weapons chest open, digging through it for his favorite sword. Katie pulled her jacket on, and Elena took another bite of her sandwich before wrapping the rest of it for later.

"Thirty-seventh street," Doyle said. "Meglash demon. Thirty minutes."

Faith squinted at him. "You okay?"

He nodded.

She stood. "Then let's go."

Weapons in hand, they filed out of the room and down the short hallway that led to the front door of the brownstone townhouse. As she stepped through the door of her home and onto the steps that led down to the sidewalk, Faith glanced at the silver plaque screwed into the brick wall: _Angel Investigations_. She looked over her shoulder at her troops, her team.

She smiled.

_

* * *

She don't run from the sun no more  
She boxed her shadow and she won_

—"Paper Bag," Anna Nalick

**

* * *

The End**

**

* * *

Disclaimer:** For fun, not money. None of the good stuff belongs to me; it belongs to Mutant Enemy.


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